The Age of Storm: Steel Rain
by wildlingking
Summary: This story is set in 680 BC, at the beginning of an era that would later be known as the Age of the Seven Kingdoms. The Storm King has conquered the Riverlands, and Princess Nymeria has united Dorne under the Martell banner. However, several new conflicts across Westeros are brewing, which we shall witness through the eyes of an original cast of characters. First book in a series.
1. Prologue

**Prologue: Sacrifice**

 **Haldor**

Sharp wind howled in the summer evening of Oldshire, as it bathed in the last light of the day. It was a small village on the lands of House Smallwood, two days of travel to south from Acorn Hall. The village was built at the side of a large and lightly wooded hill, atop of which used to stand a great weirwood tree in honor of the Old Gods.

Haldor, the eldest of Oldshire, was leading the villagers up the hill with a determinant look in his eyes. Sixteen years ago he had seen the knights of Faith Militant striking their axes on the weirwood atop this hill, bringing it down and saying that they were doing the work of their Seven Gods. That was before Lord Roderick Blackwood began his rebellion, and the Storm King Arlan Durrandon marched from the Stormlands to crush the tyrannical rule of King Humfrey Teague. The line of House Teague was ended, Roderick Blackwood fell in battle, and Arlan Durrandon annexed the Riverlands under his rule.

During the fifteen years following the war the people of Riverlands had been able to pray for both the Seven and the Old Gods in peace, but now Haldor feared that this time of peace was coming to its end. Rumors of the Faith Militant knights once again riding out of their temple at Stoney Sept to terrorize those who worshiped the Old Gods had reached his ears, and he knew something would have to be done about it. _We must ask the gods for protection._

As he reached the top of the hill, Haldor turned to look down at the villagers following him. The first one coming after him was his son Hake, dragging behind him a goat that looked restless and fearful, as if it knew this was its last journey. Slowly all the thirty-eight habitants of Oldshire arrived atop the hill and began to gather around the large stump in the middle of it. The stump of the weirwood was white as bone, and over five feet wide.

Haldor drew out his dagger and took the rein of the goat from his son, quietly approaching the stump. "Hear us, Old Gods!" he began with a ceremonial tone, and all the chattering from the villagers quieted down immediately. "I know they took your eyes away when they fell the tree, but your roots are still deep in our ground, as our faith for you is deep in our hearts. There is no axe that can cut that away, no fire that can burn it down. And so, we come here tonight to seek your protection, as those same men who took down this tree sixteen years ago are once again threatening our lives. They seek to punish us for remaining faithful to you, which is why we need your aid. Protect us from those who would harm us, and this land from the chaos that is once again rearing its ugly head. I know it is much to ask, and for that reason we have brought you a sacrifice." With these words Haldor yanked the resisting goat closer to the stump. He took in a deep breath, before swiftly cutting open the animal's throat. The goat collapsed, and its dark red blood poured onto the white stump, draining into the cracks of the wood.

Haldor fell on his knees. "Protect us, Old Gods", he prayed with closed eyes, hearing some of the villagers repeating his words behind him. "Father", the alarmed voice of Hake said behind him, and with some irritation Haldor turned to look at him. "At the fields," Hake said with a gulp, nodding towards the fields south of the village. As Haldor rose to look, he saw two dozen riders approaching them with haste, many of them carrying torches.

"We should run," someone in the crowd suggested with a panicked voice, but Haldor shook his head. "No, we remain here," he said with authority. "We have done nothing wrong."

The riders galloped up the hill, and even in the twilight Haldor recognized their silver armors and rainbow capes. They were the Warrior's Sons, knights of the Faith Militant. The man leading them removed his helmet as they halted next to the villagers, revealing a bald head and scarred face with strong jaw and sharp blue eyes. "Evening", Haldor greeted the man, trying his best not to appear nervous. The man remained silent for a moment, glaring at the stump and the dead goat next to it with disgust.

"You have performed a ritual for the false gods here tonight, am I correct?" He asked harshly, now looking Haldor to the eyes. "Who am I speaking with?" he asked calmly, which seemed to irritate the knight. "Ser Harrold Hill, Captain of the Warrior's Sons in Stoney Sept," he answered, anger oozing from his every word. "Now, answer my question," he demanded.

"Yes, we performed a ritual for the Old Gods, as is our right to do," Haldor answered, crossing his arms in a defiant manner. Ser Harrold dismounted his horse now, taking a few steps closer to Haldor. "Only the judgement of the Seven matters, and in their eyes you have committed a great sin," he spoke with a surprisingly calm tone, though the look on his eyes was full of hatred. Slowly he turned towards the weirwood's stump and spat on it. "Sixteen years ago we brought down your demon tree, and still you cling on to its stump like fools. The Old Gods are dead, their faces removed from this land. They have no power."

"And your order was defeated by the Storm King," Haldor remarked sharply, once again gaining Ser Harrold's full attention. Instead of anger, the knight's face now displayed a twisted smirk, one devoid of any real joy. "Our order has not been defeated, and it will not be defeated for as long as the Starry Sept in Oldtown stands. As for the Storm King, he has been branded an enemy of the Faith, which makes his rule over the Riverlands illegitimate. And we no longer fear his wrath, for we have a new king."

"A new king?" Haldor asked with confusion, and Harrold gave him a nod. "King Lucifer Justman, first of his name, the rightful King of the Rivers and Hills!" he announced, making sure that every villager on the hill heard him. "From this day all of you shall owe your allegiance to him, and when the dawn breaks tomorrow all rituals for the Old Gods in this village shall be forbidden by the authority of the crown."

"This makes no sense, the Justmans died out hundreds of years ago, everyone knows this," Haldor argued, but Ser Harrold just smirked. "This one lives," he said coldly, a murderous look in his eyes. Suddenly he unsheathed his sword, to which the villagers reacted with audible gasps. "Since you all climbed up here to see a sacrifice for the gods, perhaps we should indeed make one to bless the reign of King Lucifer," he spoke with an ominous tone, stepping closer to Haldor. "On your knees, old man," he commanded.

"You won't touch my father," Hake protested, stepping between him and the knight. However, with minimal effort Ser Harrold smashed the pommel of his sword against Hake's face, effectively knocking him out. Some of the villagers reacted to this by running away, while others fell on their knees to beg for mercy. "Do I need to repeat my order?" Harrold asked sternly, pointing his sword at Haldor.

"No" he responded with a sigh. Haldor looked at his unconscious son one last time, before turning towards the stump and falling on his knees in front of it. Perhaps there was no way to avoid another war, perhaps even the gods could not keep this chaos at bay. However, the thought of his blood draining into the roots of this fallen weirwood gave Haldor some solace in this moment of despair. Perhaps his life was the sacrifice that needed to be made, it was the best he could hope for.

With a subtle gulp he lowered his head and closed his eyes. All he could hear in that moment was the wind, and it sounded like someone singing a sad song somewhere far away. _The Old Gods are waiting for me,_ Haldor thought, his lips forming a small and tired smile _._ Then Ser Harrold swung his sword, ending the old man's life.


	2. Lyonel I (Act I begins)

**Act I: Gold and Wine**

 **Lyonel**

Lyonel Bracken stood silently atop the ancient stone walls of Raventree Hall, feeling the soft and warm summer breeze on his face. This summer had lasted over six years, and the dread for the inevitable winter grew larger with every new harvest. It was said that a long summer meant an even longer winter, and that concerned Lyonel. He had seen half a dozen winters in his life so far, but even the harshest of them hadn't lasted longer than five years. Winter lasting over six years would leave Riverlands in a devastated state, no matter how well they would prepare.

Standing between the two massive square towers that flanked the castle's gates, Lyonel's mind was taken back to the siege that took place here over fifteen years ago. Lyonel himself had been a young and inexperienced man on his early twenties back then, thoroughly unprepared for war. Looking towards east now, all he could see were barren green hills, but back then those hills had been overrun by an army of over ten thousand troops. King Humfrey Teague had come to crush the rebellion of Lord Roderick Blackwood once and for all, the Mallisters, Harroways, Charltons and the Faith Militant loyally backing the King of the Rivers and Hills. Meanwhile what was left of the beaten and tired army of Blackwoods, Tullys, Brackens and Vances was stuck inside this castle, growing more desperate after every passing day. It was later said that King Humfrey had already begun celebrating in his camp, so certain of victory he had been. However, soon King Arlan Durrandon arrived with a great host of twenty thousand Stormlander warriors and lifted the siege, sending King Humfrey and his supporters on the run.

Scratching his short blond beard Lyonel turned around, looking inside the castle walls now. The tall timber keep of the Blackwoods stood proudly on the inner yard, but even taller was the colossal weirwood tree on the godswood next to it. Leafless and white as bone, the weirwood of Raventree Hall had been dead for thousands of years. Many were convinced the Brackens had poisoned it after allying with the Andals and taking up the Faith of the Seven, but there was no way to know if such claims held any truth. Obviously, the Brackens had always denied the accusations.

Lyonel and his brothers had been brought up in Stone Hedge by Lord Emmon Bracken, and taught to pray to both the Old Gods and the Seven. Lord Emmon and Lord Roderick were rivals throughout their lives, just like countless of Bracken and Blackwood lords before them had been, but still they had put their differences aside and banded together to overthrow King Humfrey Teague. For Lord Roderick the reason to rise against Humfrey had been the king's violent attempts to suppress the worship of the Old Gods, whereas Lord Emmon simply wanted to avenge his younger brother who had unjustly died at the hands of the Teagues many years before the rebellion. The war ended the line of House Teague, but it also ended the lives of both Roderick and Emmon. The Riverlands were annexed by the Storm King, young Brydan Blackwood inherited Raventree Hall, and Lyonel's brother Robb Bracken became the new Lord of Stone Hedge.

Battle in the Teats fifteen years ago had ended the war, or Battle of Six Kings as they called it now. Only two kings had marched to that battle though, those being Arlan Durrandon and Humfrey Teague. Humfrey was the first to die, and all his brothers and sons followed him before the day was over. In that bloody and chaotic battle five Teague kings fell, as wells as a dozen noble lords, hundreds of anointed knights and thousands of common soldiers from both sides. Lyonel himself only narrowly avoided death due to Lord Roderick saving his life. Before the battle was over Roderick was slain by a young man named Harrold Hill, a Faith Militant knight who managed to escape after the Teagues were defeated.

After the war was won, Lyonel Bracken had sworn his sword to Brydan Blackwood, vowing to serve him until the end of his days. He owed his life to Lord Roderick, so pledging his sword to his son was the least he could do. And here he was fifteen years later, still loyally serving the Lord of Raventree Hall. Some in this castle would always look down upon a Bracken, but most had gotten used to his presence, and some had even found respect for his sense of duty.

Suddenly Lyonel was awoken from his thoughts as he heard the sound of a high-pitched horn behind him. Turning around, he saw an entourage of about thirty riders approaching the castle, flying blue-and-red banners with the leaping silver trout of House Tully. In the middle of this entourage there was an elaborately decorated red-and-blue wagon drawn by two horses, no doubt transporting the noble family itself.

"Looks like the first wedding guests are arriving," Lyonel heard a familiar voice speaking to his left, and he shifted his gaze to see Ronas Blackwood, the younger brother of Roderick and Robert. He was a lean man on his early fifties, though remarkably handsome for his age with emerald green eyes, sharp facial features, flowing dark hair and a finely trimmed full beard. After the war, the Storm King had granted the lordship of Trident Hall – the seat of the fallen Teagues – to Robert Blackwood, but Ronas had remained in Raventree Hall to aid his young nephew in governing the lands. It was well known that Arlan had no trust for Roderick's brothers, so he had left his own brother Barron Durrandon to look over Lord Brydan as well.

"The bride herself," Lyonel responded calmly as the gates below them were opened to let in the Tully entourage. Indeed, in just three days Lord Brydan was due to marry Ellyn Tully, the only daughter of Lord Everan Tully. The Tullys were perhaps the most vital ally of the Blackwoods in the Riverlands, and the purpose of this marriage was to solidify that alliance for the foreseeable future.

"I still think it'd been wiser for Brydan to marry one of Lord Mallister's daughters, or perhaps Lord Vance's," Ronas commented quietly as they watched the Tully family climbing out of their wagon down at the outer yard. "Those are the people whose loyalties are questionable if trouble arises. Whereas Lord Everan, well, he has little choice but to stay loyal to us as we're the only real allies he has."

"And he's the best ally we have. It only makes sense for us to look after one another," Lyonel responded, though the tone on his voice was a bit uncertain. He had to admit that Ronas had a point, especially now that lords Mallister, Vance, Harroway, Charlton and Smallwood had all suspiciously turned down the invitations to the wedding of their liege lord. That combined with the troubling rumors of the Warrior's Sons causing trouble in the south made Lyonel feel like the Riverlands were teetering on the brink of succumbing into another conflict.

As the tall and redheaded Lord Everan together with his wife, daughter and two sons were being escorted towards the keep, Ronas spoke up again. "Anyway, I didn't come just to chat," he said tiredly, and Lyonel glanced at him questioningly. "Barron wants to meet us at his quarters, says it's something important," Ronas clarified.

"Guess we oughta not keep him waiting then?" Lyonel replied with a raised eyebrow, and after hesitating a moment Ronas nodded in agreement. It was clear to everyone who knew them that Ronas and Barron had their differences, which could often be seen in the council meetings where they would be on the opposite sides of almost any given issue. Brydan's marriage had been one such issue, and the young lord had chosen to follow Barron's advice to marry the Tully girl.

Together Lyonel and Ronas descended from the walls and walked past the stables by the gates, where most of the Tully entourage were still grooming their horses. Quietly they made their way from the muddy outer yard to the shadowy inner yard between the keep and the godswood, and finally into the cavernous great hall. There Lord Brydan was currently welcoming the Tully family together with Maester Joseth and Ser Uthor Wayn, the elderly master-at-arms of Raventree Hall. Without bothering them Lyonel and Ronas walked straight to the corridor leading to the wooden stairway, which they climbed up all the way to the second floor.

This floor was above the quarters of the servants and household knights, but below the highest floor which was reserved for the members of the Blackwood family. The chambers here were mainly intended for highborn guests, but there were also few that were permanently occupied, one such being the quarters of Prince Barron Durrandon.

Thrice Ronas knocked on the large wooden door of the Durrandon prince. "Come in," a stern and deep voice spoke inside, and so Ronas grabbed the knob and pushed the door open. They stepped inside a large and airy room, a single oak beam standing in the middle of it. The timber walls were decorated with shiny swords and battle axes, as well as a large yellow kite shield displaying the crowned stag of House Durrandon. Behind Barron's desk were two latticework windows with diamond-shaped panes of yellow glass offering a view to the farmlands west of the castle.

Barron himself sat behind his desk with a piece of parchment on his hands and another atop the desk, hardly paying attention to Lyonel and Ronas as they entered the room. An old man he was, already on his early sixties and it was starting to show. His once jet-black bushy beard was now dark grey, his head had begun to bald, and the wrinkles on his pale face were prominent.

"My brother is dead," Barron begun bluntly, laying down the parchment and raising his gaze to meet that of Lyonel's and Ronas'. Though he clearly tried to hide it, Lyonel could spot the grief in the old prince's blue eyes.

"King Arlan is dead?" Ronas spoke with a distraught expression on his face, and Barron nodded. "He is, which is why I must ride to Storm's End as soon as I can. I need to take part in my brother's funeral, as well as the coronation of my nephew," he explained with a sigh, turning his eyes to the parchment again. "While I am gone, you Ronas will be Lord Brydan's most important advisor, which is a position I wish you to handle with great care."

"Of course. And… my condolences," Ronas responded with a small nod, which was followed by a tense moment of silence. "Unfortunately, that is not all," Barron spoke up again, letting out a deep sigh as he picked up the other piece of parchment from his desk. "We've all heard the recent rumors about the Warrior's Sons causing commotion on the lands around Stoney Sept. In order to learn more about this I sent ravens to lords Smallwood, Keath, Ryger, Vance and Harlton, inquiring what they knew of this and if their lands had been harassed."

"And?" Lyonel asked quietly, the grim expression on Barron's face making him fear that he wouldn't like what was coming next. "There has been no answer from lords Smallwood, Keath or Vance, and Lord Ryger simply claims to be ignorant of the Warrior's Sons actions. However, Lord Harlton's answer arrived this morning, and it reads as follows: 'Several reports of the Warrior's Sons riding to settlements in our lands to intimidate or agitate the people have arrived to Castlewood during the past moon. I've heard even more of such behavior has occurred especially on the lands of House Vance and House Keath, though I cannot confirm the truth of this. However, that is not all, as just few days ago word reached me that the Faith Militant have crowned a pretender king in Stoney Sept, a man who calls himself Lucifer Justman. This I cannot confirm either, but if true it could mean they plan to start another war. My intention was to inform you of this at Lord Brydan's wedding, but since you requested an answer as soon as possible I decided on writing this message. Yours truly, Lord Armond Harlton.'"

"Excuse me, did I hear _Justman_?" Ronas asked, his tone equally baffled and amused. "An imposter, no doubt one of the Faith Militant's own," Barron muttered in response, laying down Lord Harlton's message. "That is, if the man even exists. Nonetheless, it is clear that trouble is brewing in the south, trouble that I would like to resolve before it escalates. However, as I will be preoccupied this mission falls to you, Lyonel Bracken."

"As you wish, my prince," Lyonel responded with a slightly surprised tone. "And what exactly will be my mission?" He asked. A sharp glare took over Barron's eyes, and he clenched his fists. "After the wedding, you will travel south with Lord Harlton, and you will get to the bottom of this mess," he instructed sternly. "You will find out who leads this treasonous conspiracy, who supports it, and what sort of response it merits. And if an opportunity to make an action that would resolve the situation presents itself, you will take it. Do you understand?"

"I do," Lyonel Bracken responded with a dutiful tone. A satisfied smile formed on Barron Durrandon's face as he looked Lyonel to the eyes. "Ours is the fury."


	3. Gwynesse I

**Gwynesse**

 _Iron Raven_ moved swiftly under the warm summer sun, the Sunset Sea glimmering all around it, and its waves gently splashing against the hull. It was the flagship of King Harmund Hoare, second of his name, and it had been on the sea for over a week now, along with the other two Hoare ships sailing with it. And now finally they approached the imposing Casterly Rock of the Lannisters, and the wealthy city of Lannisport by its feet.

Looking at the magnificent seat of the Lannisters, which raised well over thousand feet above the sea, Gwynesse Goodbrother couldn't help but be amazed. The ringfort on top of the colossal rock was by itself almost the size of Hammerhorn, but for the massive body of Casterly Rock it was just the crown on the lion's head. No doubt thousands of Ironborn had looked at this same view throughout the past centuries, sharpening their axes as they prepared to unleash their might on the golden city. However, King Harmund the Haggler had not sailed here to raid or wage war, he had been invited by his father-in-law, Lancel the Fifth, King of the Rock.

Gwynesse glanced at Prince Harmund the Handsome, who was standing beside her at the prow of _Iron Raven_ , but the heir to the Iron Islands didn't look to be nearly as awe-struck by the sight as she was. Of course, the prince had seen Casterly Rock several times before, visiting his mother's family. And what came to Queen Lelia and King Harmund, they had both grown up here, so for them the sight was so familiar they hadn't even bothered coming out of their cabin yet.

Instead of going to the harbor of Lannisport the Hoare ships sailed straight towards the Rock, and the caverns underneath it. "It's bigger than I imagined," Gwynesse finally managed to utter, and Prince Harmund flashed her a charming smirk. Being only a year younger Gwynesse had known the prince throughout her childhood and youth, having often visited the Hoare Castle with his lord father Garrison Goodbrother. However, this nine-day sail from Great Wyk to Casterly Rock had been the longest and most intimate time she had spent with the prince, and she truly felt they had grown closer as friends than ever before. Gwynesse knew quite well that her father had sent her on this journey in hopes of the prince falling for her, but she still saw that as a very unlikely scenario. Sure, she didn't consider herself ugly, but Harmund was exceptional when it came to looks, which had earned him the moniker of 'the Handsome'. Be that as it may, Lord Garrison was eager to see his only daughter as the Queen of the Iron Islands, and while Gwynesse wouldn't object, she had a feeling that the prince wouldn't be so easily charmed.

Harmund the Handsome was a very unusual Ironborn. He didn't seem to particularly enjoy the sea, he had been raised by his mother to worship the Seven Gods, and not once had Gwynesse heard him talk about the glory of raiding. No, Harmund preferred to talk about the great knights of the green lands, warriors that saved the maidens instead of stealing them. Even if the prince did have the black hair and dark eyes of his father, there was something undeniably Lannister about him – the way he spoke, the way he dressed, and the way he combed his hair and kept his face cleanshaven. Nonetheless, Gwynesse found Prince Harmund to be a good man, and certainly worthy of her respect.

Soon the Hoare ships creeped inside the caverns under Casterly Rock, and finally the King and Queen came out of their cabin. The cavern was larger enough to fit a castle in it, and its docks and wharves were illuminated by dozens of brightly burning torches. The longships looked especially strong and imposing here, surrounded by small merchant cogs.

As they climbed out of their ships and onto the docks, the Hoares were welcomed by a crowd of noblemen, their silk and velvet clothes adorned by golden lions. Leading them was a tall blonde man around the same age as King Harmund, that being early fifties.

"Harmund!" The man greeted the Ironborn king with a cheerful tone, embracing into a brotherly hug with him, before turning to Queen Lelia. "And my sweet sister, it is so good to see both of you again! Not to forget my handsome nephew," he added with a grin, now looking at Prince Harmund.

"It's great to be back, Tymond," King Harmund replied with an earnest tone on his deep voice. "How's the old man?" He asked with a relaxed tone, to which Tymond Lannister let out a sigh. "You know Lancel," he said with a repressed chuckle. "There's always some grand plan in his mind."

"I'm assuming that's why he called for us," Queen Lelia joined the conversation with her warm and motherly voice. "You would be correct, sister," Tymond replied calmly, tensing up slightly. "I think it would be best if he explains it himself... as for now I know almost as little as you."

"Well then, we better go meet him," King Harmund said with a carefree tone, and Tymond nodded to him. Gwynesse followed from behind as they began to make their way up the winding stairway carved into the rock.

"Gwyn" she heard a raspy voice of an older male behind her and turned to see Captain Garse Goodbrother approaching her. Though they shared family name, they weren't directly related, as Garse hailed from the cadet branch of Corpse Lake. He was the younger brother of Lord Gilbert Goodbrother, a man known for little more than his endless lust and gluttony. Garse however was a true warrior and a man of the sea, having raided the coasts of Reach and North throughout his life.

"What is it?" Gwynesse asked quietly, trying to avoid gaining the attention of the Lannister noblemen around them. "There was something I wanted to ask, figured this was a good time," Garse responded, a slight smirk on his scarred face as he glanced towards the Hoares and Lannisters walking ahead of them. "I saw you with the prince earlier. That's why your father sent you, to woo him, isn't it?" he asked with a whisper, and Gwynesse gave him a wordless nod. For a moment Garse remained silent, a pensive expression on his face.

"You'll do as you will, Gwyn," he finally spoke up quietly, looking her to the eyes. "However, if you want to marry a true Ironborn, Gilbert's firstborn is still unmarried."

"I'll keep that in mind," Gwynesse replied dryly, turning her eyes away from Garse. In truth she knew enough about Erik Goodbrother to be certain she would never marry that man. Though not as bad as his father, he had a reputation as a violent and arrogant man.

Finally the stairs ended, and after walking through a short corridor they arrived to a large hall with gilded walls and massive red marble pillars, their girth at least three fathoms. At the western end of the hall there were four tall windows bringing in the light of the sun, as well as a large archway leading into a garden. Inside the hall the many treasures of House Lannister were in display, ranging from simple golden ornaments to statues thrice the size of Gwynesse.

"Welcome to the Golden Gallery," Prince Tymond Lannister spoke to the Ironborn guests, a thin smile on his face. "This is a collection of the many treasures gathered and crafted in Casterly Rock since the age of the First Men. Feel free to look around while we wait for His Grace."

With a bored expression Gwynesse approached a golden sculpture of a lion, large rubies embedded as its eyes. She touched its golden mane lightly, feeling the cold surface under her fingertips. _I wonder how much some fat magister beyond the Narrow Sea would pay for this,_ she thought with a smirk forming on her face. Suddenly from the corner of her eye she spotted Prince Harmund stepping next to her.

"Like it?" the prince asked smoothly, and with a subtle gulp Gwynesse moved her hand away from the sculpture. "I was just wondering how valuable it is," she replied with a shy grin, to which Harmund reacted with a soft chuckle. "The Golden Gallery is impressive, but I think I can show you an even better view," he said, a playful smirk on his face. "Is that so?" Gwynesse asked with a raised eyebrow, and the prince nodded. "Follow me", he simply said, turning to head towards the archway at the western end of the hall. Quietly Gwynesse walked after him, and through the archway they entered a small garden at the side of the Rock.

Harmund led them through the stony pathway past the peaches and finely trimmed shrubs, all the way to the stone railing at the very edge. From there opened a view to the wide Sunset Sea glimmering beneath them, continuing as far to the west as the eye could see before disappearing into the horizon. The ships sailing down there looked so small that they could fit between your fingers. It was a magnificent view indeed, though somewhat overshadowed for Gwynesse by the uneasy feeling in her stomach she got from just looking down. They had to be at least seven hundred feet above the water, and they weren't even half way to the top of the Rock.

"So, what's your impression on Casterly Rock?" Harmund asked calmly, a friendly smile on his face. Gwynesse considered her answer for a moment, letting her gaze travel through the horizon. "It's all so… grand, and shiny," she finally said, her tone half admiring and half wary. She had to admit that there was something regal and powerful in just the sheer size of this place, but it wasn't a place she would ever feel comfortable calling home. There was just too much gold and silk, and not enough dirt and rust.

Harmund told her about the first time he had seen Casterly Rock as a child, a dreamy look in his eyes as he described how amazed he had been in that moment. It was quite clear he much preferred this place to his home at Hoare Castle, not to even mention any other castle on the Iron Isles. They chatted a while about their childhood memories, and while the prince did most of the talking Gwynesse managed to share with him a story about her and her younger brother Gabrin getting lost at the woods near Hammerhorn when they were under ten years old. The story seemed to greatly amuse Harmund, and he remarked that getting lost in the woods was something that rarely happened on the Iron Isles, given that most of its forests had been cut down for timber centuries ago. It was the reason why they were so desperately clinging on to their hold on Cape Kraken, despite the constant conflicts it caused with the Northmen.

Time flew quickly as Gwynesse and Harmund laughed and told their stories to each other, and soon they were approached by another Lannister, this one being about the same age as they were. "Prince Harmund," he greeted the Hoare prince with a bright smile on his finely formed and clean-shaven face, his long golden hair combed behind his head.

"Prince Tywell," Harmund responded politely, the smile on his face telling that he considered the man his friend. "Gwynesse, this is Tywell Lannister, grandson of King Lancel. Tywell, this is Gwynesse Goodbrother, daughter of Lord Garrison Goodbrother," he introduced them to each other, and the Lannister prince gave him a small bow, to which she a bit clumsily responded with a curtsy.

"It is an honor to meet you, mylady," Tywell spoke with a formal tone, and Gwynesse smiled hesitantly. She had had some basic training of course, but court etiquette wasn't something one had to pay much mind to on the Iron Isles. "The honor is all mine," she managed to mumble, and Tywell reacted with what looked like a sincere smile.

"Anyway, grandfather already welcomed the guests while you two were here," he said with a small sigh, turning his eyes back to Harmund who just shrugged lazily. "I'm sure we didn't miss anything important," he responded calmly.

"Well, you did miss the invitation to the dinner," Tywell spoke, furrowing his eyebrows slightly. "And considering that Lancel plans to reveal his plans on that dinner, I'd say it is quite important."

"Then I'll be there," Harmund said with a nonchalant tone. Tywell merely nodded with a sigh, before glancing at Gwynesse. "And will Lady Gwynesse accompany you?" he asked curiously. Not knowing what to say or how to react, Gwynesse simply turned her eyes to Harmund, and for a couple seconds they just looked at each other. "I don't know," Harmund finally spoke, his words quiet and sharp. "Would you like to?" he then asked.

Gwynesse turned her gaze down for a moment, before raising it up again and confidently speaking up. "Yes, I would. If it pleases you, my prince," she said, seeing Harmund's lips immediately forming a warm smile. "It does," he said softly.

Gwynesse and the rest of the Ironborn entourage were given quarters a few floors above the Golden Gallery, on a long corridor by the southern side of the Rock. The chambers given to Gwynesse herself were fairly small but comfortable, having even a window with a view towards Lannisport. After taking a bath and changing into a red-and-black velvet dress for the royal dinner she sat down on the bed, and it felt softer than any other bed she had ever slept on. With a sigh she closed her eyes to relax for a moment, but a sudden knock on the door startled her awake. Harmund had promised to escort her to the dinner, but there was still supposed to be at least an hour before it would begin. Nervously Gwynesse stood up and walked to the door, expecting to see the prince as he opened it. However, instead of Harmund there was a young fair-haired girl clad in a simple crimson-colored wool dress.

"Lady Gwynesse," the girl spoke with a curtsy. "I was sent to prepare you for the dinner," she explained with a polite tone. Gwynesse looked at the girl doubtingly for a couple seconds, before hesitantly letting her in. "I've already bathed and dressed up," she said sternly.

"Good, then I can go straight to doing your hair, mylady," the servant girl said, gesturing towards the wooden chair by the table. "Please, take a seat."

Gwynesse glanced at the loose and messy braid she had made for herself, and with a sigh she sat down. The servant girl put a small mirror on the table in front of her and began to open Gwynesse's hair. As the girl begun to comb her hair, Gwynesse silently stared at her reflection on the mirror. It wasn't something she did often, and the longer she looked the more she was bothered by her imperfections. Her brown eyes were slightly too close to each other, her nose was a bit too wide, her eyebrows too thick and her brown hair just too plain and boring. She quickly shook these irritating thoughts out of her mind and decided to instead converse with the servant girl, who had just started to work on an extravagant crown braid on top of Gwynesse's head. "So, girl, what's your name?" she asked.

"I'm glad you asked, mylady," the girl chirped cheerfully, still working on her hair. "I am Brynna Sarsfield, grandniece of the Lord of Sarsfield."

"Sarsfield… I think I've heard of the place before," Gwynesse said with a disinterested tone, and Brynna nodded enthusiastically. "It is a beautiful castle, just a day's ride away from Casterly Rock. So, where do you come from, mylady?" she asked with her bubbly tone.

"A place called Hammerhorn," Gwynesse responded calmly, a subtle smile forming on her face just from thinking about her home. "It is a large and sturdy square castle built on the Hardstone Hills of the Great Wyk," she explained proudly. "And beneath it are the largest mines in all of the Iron Isles."

"I've heard that slaves work on the mines of the Ironborn," Brynna interjected, her tone suddenly less cheerful, and the smile faded from Gwynesse's face. "Thralls," she corrected calmly. "But also regular smallfolk, mostly them in fact these days."

"So, things really are changing on the Iron Isles?" Brynna asked shyly. Gwynesse raised her eyebrow, considering her answer for a moment. "Yes, I suppose they are," she finally said, seeing from the mirror that the extravagant braid on her head was almost ready.

Shortly after the servant girl had finished with her hair and took her leave, Prince Harmund finally arrived. He looked stunning in his dark blue satin garb paired with a golden silk cape. With a charming smile on his face he bowed and offered his hand for Gwynesse. "You look beautiful, mylady," he complimented her as she took his hand. "Thank you," she muttered nervously, only now fully realizing that she was about to walk hand in hand to a royal dinner with Prince Harmund the Handsome, in front of his father and her king.

"Is everything alright, Gwyn?" Harmund asked empathically, and she gave him a hesitant nod. "Yes, it's just… are you sure this is appropriate?" she asked with a nervous chuckle, and a grin formed on Harmund's face. "If you're worried about my father's reaction, don't be," he said softly, taking in a deep breath. "He knows we are close friends."

"And what about the Lannisters?" Gwynesse asked sharply, surprising even herself that she cared about their opinion. "They might… misinterpret."

"Let them," Harmund said with a carefree shrug, and Gwynesse gave him a questioning look. "Yes, Gwyn, I'm sure," he said before she could even ask, letting out a small chuckle. "Now, shall we go before we're late?" he asked, and Gwynesse nodded, a relieved smile forming on her face.

They walked towards north through a wide corridor and a small hall, up one stairway and towards east through a short corridor, until finally arriving to the dinner hall. It wasn't a place for great feasts, but rather a more intimate room clearly meant for family dinners. Fire was burning on the fireplace, and dozens of candles were illuminating the room decorated with tapestries and red silken curtains. On the floor were red carpets adorned with golden patterns, no doubt the work of the finest weavers in Lannisport.

At the end of the long table sat King Lancel Lannister, next to him his son and daughter-in-law, as well as their son and daughter. Lancel was an old man, already on his late sixties, but there was still plenty of lion left in him. The gaze in his green eyes was sharp, he was well dressed, and his light grey beard and hair were finely groomed. And of course, on his head was a magnificent golden crown.

At the other end of the table sat King Harmund Hoare, and beside him his wife Queen Lelia. Quietly Prince Harmund took the seat next to his father, and Gwynesse sat down between him and Prince Tywell's sister. For a couple of seconds an awkward silence followed, and Gwynesse kept her gaze firmly on the surface of the table.

"Well then, it seems everyone is here," the Lannister king finally spoke up with his authoritative tone, gesturing for the servants to bring in the first course. As the silver plates with onions and boiled quail eggs were carried in front of them, and the wine poured into their glasses, conversations around the table slowly began. King Lancel took a sip of the wine and a bite of the egg, signaling for the rest of them to start dining as well.

"So, I heard you're the daughter of Lord Goodbrother," the Lannister princess next to Gwynesse said to her, and she responded with a nod. "Yes, I am Gwynesse Goodbrother," she introduced herself quietly, making sure her voice wouldn't be the loudest around the table.

"Lorena Lannister, daughter of Prince Tymond and Princess Alysanne," the princess responded, nodding towards her parents closer to King Lancel. "Not a Lannister for much longer though, it seems. I've recently been betrothed to Lord Reyne's heir," Lorena continued, rolling her eyes as she spoke.

"Not your own choice, I take it?" Gwynesse asked with a subtle smirk, and Lorena shook her head in confirmation. "The boy is four years younger than me, barely a man grown," she explained with a sarcastic chuckle. "Ramsay Reyne, an arrogant child is what he is. Anyway, you and Prince Harmund, are you to be wed?"

"No" Gwynesse immediately responded, perhaps more sharply than was necessary. "Not for now, at least," she continued with a softer tone. "Neither of us have been promised."

"Well, the prince is already twenty and three, it'd be about time for him to settle down with someone," Lorena spoke with a quiet and playful tone, and Gwynesse glanced quickly towards Harmund to make sure he wasn't listening to their conversation. "It's not in my hands," she then whispered, and Lorena gave her an understanding nod. "I wouldn't be so sure, maybe it is more in your hands than you realize," the Lannister princess said with a wink, before taking a sip of her wine. Gwynesse followed the example, gulping her glass nearly empty.

As the second course of black bread and smoked salmon was being brought to the table, King Harmund chinked his glass thrice to garner everyone's attention. As the people around the table quieted down, he cleared his throat and spoke up. "It feels great to be back here in Casterly Rock, Your Grace," he started with a polite tone, raising his glass for King Lancel, who reciprocated the gesture. "However, I was led to believe you had some greater purpose for summoning us here this time."

"Straight to business then, aye?" Lancel asked, gulping down his wine and gesturing for the servants to pour more for all of them. "Fine by me," he continued, taking a bite of the black beard. "You're correct, my friend, I have indeed summoned you here for a great purpose. Decades ago when I first began to build this alliance together with your father, we both had great visions for what could come out of it. Since then much of it has indeed come to fruition, with the trade between our kingdoms blossoming and creating wealth greater than ever before for both. However, there is one aspect of this alliance that remains untested, patiently waiting for its day to shine."

"And what would that be?" King Harmund asked, his eyes narrowed in interest. "The combined military might of the ironman raiders and the knights of the Rock," Lancel responded, a grin forming on his face. There was something unsettling in his expression, a hunger that had so far remained hidden. "Westeros is changing. During my time as a king I have seen the weakened Riverlands fall under the rule of the Storm King, I have seen the weak and petty kingdoms of Dorne being united by a strong foreign conqueror. And when I look to south I see the Reach, weakened by internal quarrels, and ripe for taking."

"The Gardeners are not to be underestimated, their kingdom has stood for thousands of years," Prince Harmund stated with a somewhat concerned tone, and King Lancel gave him a nod. "And never before in those thousands of years have the Rock and the Iron Isles been united as they are now," he said confidently. "Your ancestors terrorized their coasts from Arbor to Old Oak for centuries, mine came close to conquering their lands several times. Imagine what we could achieve together."

A tense moment of silence followed the Lannister king's words, and Gwynesse glanced quietly at the other people around the table, seeing excitement in some eyes and concern in others. King Harmund however kept whatever he felt hidden under the expression of utter calmness. "And if we succeed, if we defeat the Gardeners, what then?" he asked, a sharp tone on his voice.

"Then we shall share their kingdom," Lancel responded with an almost arrogant smirk on his face. "You can keep the shores, I will take Highgarden and everything east from it."

King Harmund tapped his fingers against the table, a thoughtful expression on his face. However, before he could say anything, Queen Lelia spoke up. "Father, are you sure this is wise?" she asked gently, deep concern in her green eyes. "What if it goes wrong?"

"That is the risk a man must take if he ever wishes to achieve something great, my sweet daughter", Lancel responded dismissively, quickly shifting his gaze back to King Harmund. "So, do you believe you could rally your captains to sail to war against the Reach?" he asked.

"Yes, I do, and I shall," Harmund responded after a moment of consideration, a slight smirk forming on his face now, to which King Lancel reacted with a hearty laugh. "We shall achieve great things together, that I swear to you my friend!" he roared cheerfully, gulping down his wine.

"For great things," Harmund proclaimed with a bombastic tone, and everyone around the table raised their glasses and repeated the words.

Four courses and several glasses of wine later the dinner was over, and the Hoares and Lannisters alike were making their way out of the dinner hall. Prince Harmund was escorting Gwynesse back towards her chambers, both of them slightly tipsy from the wine. Gwynesse couldn't contain her smile, being more than satisfied with the evening so far. She had managed to not embarrass herself in front of these royal folk, and she even believed she had given a decent impression of herself, as well as making a new friend in Princess Lorena.

"I always knew King Lancel to be ambitious, but this talk of conquering the Reach is something else entirely," Harmund spoke as they walked down the stairs, shifting Gwynesse's attention back to him. "Heavens, if he succeeds in this, his name will never be forgotten. Same goes for my father, I suppose."

"Perhaps for you as well," Gwynesse suggested lightheartedly, to which Harmund chuckled warmly. "Benefit of having the same name as my father," he jested, and they both laughed. Finally, they arrived at the door of Gwynesse's chambers.

Opening the door, Gwynesse turned once more to look at Prince Harmund, who was standing there with a sharp look in his eyes. For a couple seconds neither of them said anything, until Gwynesse spoke up. "Thanks for this evening…" she begun, but cut herself off as Harmund begun to open the braid on her head. "Figured I'd help you with this", he said with a cheerful tone, and Gwynesse subtly rolled her eyes. "Thanks, I guess," she muttered amusedly, and Harmund looked her charmingly to the eyes. "No, thank _you_ , my lady," he replied smoothly, sliding his hand softly through Gwynesse's now open hair. He stepped even closer to her, and she felt her heart racing in excitement.

For a moment neither of them said anything, as Gwynesse moved her right hand on Harmund's lower back, and he moved his on her hips. Unable to hold back any longer, Gwynesse rushed to kiss the prince on the lips, before backing away inside the room and looking him intensely to the eyes. He took in a deep breath and followed her inside, closing the door behind him. That night they made love, and Gwynesse felt like she was in one of those seven heavens Harmund always talked about.


	4. Hagon I

**Hagon**

Today Prince Hagon Hoare was the Lord of Hoare Castle, today he sat on his father's throne of oily black stone. The Seastone Chair they called it, a relic from the times when the Ironborn ruled the western coast of Westeros all the way from Arbor to Bear Island. Now all they had left aside from the Iron Isles themselves was a piece of land on Cape Kraken, and an alliance with the golden lions of the Rock. Hagon himself was half a lion thanks to this alliance, just like his brother, both of them brought forth to this world by Lelia Lannister of Casterly Rock. Prince Harmund took pride in his Lannister blood, but Hagon saw only shame in it. That was the difference between them, Harmund was at home among the lions, but Hagon was a man of the Iron Islands.

"Dozen men died on the latest skirmish against the Flints," said the sturdy Ironborn warrior standing in front of the throne, shifting Hagon's attention back to him. Maron Merlyn he was, a seasoned man of many winters, who had once sailed with the grandfather of Hagon, King Harmund the Host. Maron was the man Hagon's father had chosen as the lord of the Ironborn settlement in Cape Kraken, and he had dutifully served on that post now for two decades, which was as long as Hagon had been alive. "We need more men on Greencliffe, especially if the Stark king decides to march his armies on Cape Kraken."

"The Starks are weak," Hagon said dismissively. "They've tried to take Cape Kraken for centuries, and countless times we've drove them back. What makes you think they'd be any more successful now?"

"Ever since King Harlon and his brother defeated the Bolton rebellion the North has been for the first time in a long time truly united behind their king, and since their wars with the Vale have been over for a generation we are their primary enemy now," Maron protested sternly. "Your father has always understood that Cape Kraken's importance for this kingdom is crucial. It is the last piece of land we have on the mainland, our last reliable source of timber for the ships. The power of the Ironborn is on the sea, but that power will be crippled without Cape Kraken."

Hagon let out a sigh, considering his response for a moment. He knew his father would send at least a full crew of warriors to help his old friend, but Hagon was not like his father. "As a compensation for your recent losses I will give you two dozen thralls, to help with the harvesting of resources and maintenance of the settlement. However, I will not force a single warrior of the Iron Islands to leave their homes to protect Cape Kraken."

"But it is precisely warriors that I need, my prince, not thralls," Maron responded, a touch of frustration in his words. "I already have enough men cutting wood and cleaning pots, I need more men to fight off the Northmen that harass our lands."

"If you need warriors you may ask them to join you, there are plenty here," Hagon responded calmly, glancing at the many warriors that were present in the hall. "However, they are all free men, and it is their choice if they want to sail with you to Cape Kraken." For a moment Maron Merlyn just glared at Hagon, and the prince could see from the old man's eyes that he wasn't pleased at all with his decision.

"Fine then," he finally grumbled. "Any volunteers may join my crew, but be quick! I will set sail towards Harlaw Hall tomorrow at first light." Maron gave one more glare at Prince Hagon, before walking away. _Harlaw Hall... he is going to ask Lord Ulfric's aid,_ Hagon realized. Lord Ulfric Harlaw was a close friend of the King, with a similar set of values. During his lordship the longships of Harlaw had not once sailed to raid. Instead Ulfric had increased trade with the Baneforts, Tarbecks and Reynes, transporting iron ore for the Westermen, and bringing back their crops and silver. That was what King Harmund the Haggler encouraged, what he wanted his lords to be – traders, not raiders. Perhaps it was necessary, since the Ironborn had clearly lost much of the power they once held, mayhaps being allied with the Westermen wasn't entirely a bad thing. That said, Hagon was glad there were still many Ironborn lords who respected the Old Way, who actively raided the Reach and the North and paid the real iron price to get what they wanted from the greenlanders. Hagon had heard a lot of stories about these glorious raids and the fearless warriors leading them, and throughout his childhood he had aspired to be one of them. Instead he had been stuck in Hoare Castle, listening to his mother lecture about the Seven Gods, and his father talking about how in the future all the Ironborn would abandon the Old Way and turn to trading. However, his brother was the worst. Harmund the Handsome openly despised the Old Way and those who practiced it, seeing himself as being above it. No doubt in his dreams he was a knight of the green lands, faithfully serving his Seven Gods and slaying the servants of the Drowned God.

Standing up from the Seastone Chair and starting to walk towards the entrance of the throne room, Hagon was approached by his friend Quenton Farwynd. He was the grandnephew of Urrek Farwynd, the Lord of Sealskin Point. Quenton was just a few weeks younger than Hagon, and he had been King Harmund's ward from the age of eight to sixteen, which had resulted in the two of them growing up as close friends. In fact, Hagon often considered Quenton to be more of a brother to him than Harmund. He had arrived at Hoare Castle yesterday, before which Hagon hadn't seen him in almost a year.

"So, how's it feel sitting on the Seastone Chair?" Quenton asked with a laid-back tone, and Hagon just flashed him a thin smirk. They knew each other well enough that words weren't always necessary to communicate. "Hm, always thought it looked kind of uncomfortable," Quenton quipped as they walked out of the throne room.

"Who said that a king's seat should be comfortable?" Hagon replied sharply, to which Quenton shrugged lazily. "I don't see why it shouldn't be," he answered nonchalantly.

"Because the king's position is not supposed to be a comfortable one," Hagon argued, but Quenton just chuckled at his words. "And because of that he has to numb his arse sitting on a stony chair?" he asked sarcastically, and Hagon just rolled his eyes.

Before he could change the subject, Hagon was being approached by someone else on the hallway. It was Jason Codd, the captain of the castle guard, clad in his iron hauberk and black tabard with the Hoare sigil, as always. Jason was a bald man on his late thirties, dutiful and loyal warrior, if not the smartest or most gifted. "Prince Hagon, there is a guest at the gates," the captain explained with a muffled tone, a touch of concern in his words.

"A guest?" Hagon asked calmly, and Jason nodded. "Aye, a Drowned Man, your highness," he said with a subtle gulp. "The one who calls himself Shrike." The mention of this name made both Hagon and Quenton tense up. _Shrike_ , he had heard that name before, several times. There were rumors about him preaching to other Ironborn lords that the Hoares had betrayed their people by abandoning the Drowned God and the Old Way. He was widely known to oppose the rule of King Harmund, going as far as calling for a rebellion. Hagon had never expected to meet this man, least of all here in Hoare Castle. "Are you sure you are not mistaken, captain?" He asked sternly, and Jason Codd shook his head. "No, my prince. Unless the man lied to me, he is the Shrike we've heard so much about," he said, a serious look in his brown eyes. "He is in the courtyard right now, surrounded by my men. Just give the order and I'll bring you his head."

"No" Hagon said immediately, to which Jason frowned in confusion. "Do not harm him. Bring him to my chambers... I want to have a conversation with him." Jason looked hesitant, but nodded dutifully nonetheless, before making his way back to the courtyard. Of course Jason Codd didn't understand it, but killing this man here and now would be a horrible mistake. The Shrike had come to Hoare Castle alone, knowing the risk he was taking. However, by killing the priest Hagon would only make him a martyr, a symbol for the resistance against the Hoares, and there was no doubt the Shrike knew this just as well as Hagon.

"Why do you think he's here?" Quenton asked, his tone a bit more serious than usually. Hagon exchanged a look with his friend, seeing the same confusion in his eyes that was in his own mind. "I don't know, but I'm going to find out," Hagon finally muttered, before making his way to his chambers alone.

A few minutes passed, before the door was finally knocked on. "Come in," Hagon said confidently, and with a creak the wooden door was opened. At the doorframe stood Jason Codd and several of his guardsmen, surrounding a narrow man dressed in dirty and worn out grey robes. The priest's gaunt face and long unwashed hair and beard made him look old, but the gaze on his bright blue eyes was sharp and focused. "Prince Hagon," he greeted the prince with his deep and melodic voice as he stepped inside, Jason and his guards tailing him with hands on the hilts of their weapons.

"Shrike," Hagon replied dryly, expressing no emotion. "Take a seat." The priest bowed, before sitting down on the opposite side of the desk from Hagon. The Shrike glanced at the guards behind him, and then the prince. "Perhaps we could discuss in private?" He suggested smoothly, and after a moment of consideration Hagon nodded. "Jason, wait outside," he commanded calmly, which made the captain of the guard frown. "But my prince," he begun to protest, but Hagon cut him off by pulling out a short sword from under his desk.

"I can protect myself, captain," he said as he laid the sword on top of the desk, glaring at Jason, who then nodded obediently and turned to his guards, leading them out of the room. As the door closed, Hagon shifted his eyes to the Drowned Man sitting in front of him. "Why did you come?" He asked sternly, and a subtle smile formed on the Shrike's face.

"I heard King Harmund sailed to Casterly Rock with his wife and first son," he answered calmly, to which Hagon narrowed his eyes. "That is not an answer, priest," he said sharply. "I know you preach against my house, against our rule on the Iron Islands."

"You are mistaken, my prince," Shrike responded without a second of hesitation. "It is not House Hoare that I preach against. I preach against the alliance with the Lannisters, I preach against the teachings of Septons of the Seven tainting the mind of the heir to the Seastone Chair, and I preach against the Old Way being abandoned by our king."

"A complicated way of saying that you preach against my father's rule," Hagon stated coldly, and a small smirk formed on the Shrike's face. "Perhaps," he admitted slyly, and paused for a moment. "However, I have not lost all hope. Your father has disgraced the Drowned God in many ways during his reign, and I've heard troubling rumors of Prince Harmund being even worse in that aspect. That said, I've also heard that the King has another son that respects the Old Way, a son that has no love for the Lannisters despite sharing their blood. Is there any truth to what I've heard, Prince Hagon?"

 _That is why he is here, to turn me against my father and brother,_ Hagon realized. He stayed silent for a moment, pondering in his mind what would be the best course of action in this moment. The Shrike no doubt thought he could manipulate him. _Perhaps I should let him keep that illusion, for now_.

"Yes", he said sternly, looking the Shrike to the eyes. "I have heard great stories about the Ironborn of the old, how they ruled the seas from Arbor to Bear Island with chains of iron. I do not wish to abandon the Old Way, the way that made us strong in the first place." There was no lie in Hagon's words, they came out naturally. He did believe in the Old Way and wanted the Ironborn to thrive through raiding rather than trading. However, what he didn't mention to the Shrike was that above all else he was loyal to his father and would never turn against him.

"That is good to hear, prince," Shrike said quietly, smirking behind his beard. "Your words give me hope that perhaps one day House Hoare can raise this kingdom back to its former glory. However, one issue remains. You are not the heir of King Harmund the Haggler, your brother is. And the stories I've heard of Prince Harmund... they deeply concern me."

"My brother is more a Lannister than a Hoare", Hagon said quietly, taking in a deep breath. "He has no love for the Iron Islands, so there will be no reason for him to rule as their king. When our father dies, I'll make sure Harmund spends the rest of his life away from the Iron Isles." Hagon gulped subtly as he finished speaking. This had been his plan for a long time, but this was the first time he had ever uttered it out loud, and it felt strange.

"So, you trust your brother will exile himself without resistance?" Shrike asked, and Hagon nodded. However, the Drowned Man didn't look convinced. "And what if he doesn't?" He asked strictly, and Hagon let out a sigh. This was something he hadn't yet planned in detail. It would be years, most likely decades, before he would truly be faced with this situation, but the thought of it troubled him already. Kinslaying was the greatest sin of all, whether one follows the Drowned God or the Seven, but if Harmund would leave him no chance...

"If he doesn't step down willingly, I will remove my brother from the throne with force," Hagon finally answered, turning his gaze down as he spoke. "Good" Shrike said with a pleased tone. "So, I can trust that if the day comes that your brother takes the Seastone Chair, you will rise against him?"

"Yes" Hagon confirmed quietly, raising his gaze up and seeing the satisfied smile on the priest's gaunt face. "I have one more question for you, my prince. When you were born, were you baptized by a Drowned Man?" Shrike asked with an unsettling tone on his voice, and Hagon shook his head. "No. From what I've been told I was baptized in the light of the Seven," he answered.

"So, you only have the blessing of the false gods of the Andals," Shrike said sternly, tapping his fingers lightly on the table. "You say you believe in the Old Way... Will you let me bless you with seawater, to truly make you a servant of the Drowned God?"

"Yes" Hagon answered decisively. "Yes, I will."

Later that day, half of the court of Hoare Castle had gathered to the beach by the castle's feet to witness Prince Hagon being baptized by the Shrike. He stood in the cold seawater that reached his thighs, the priest standing in front of him with a calm and focused expression on his face. "Kneel," he said quietly, and after hesitating a couple of seconds Hagon obeyed, falling on his knees to the cold water.

Feeling the cold and wet fingers of the Shrike on the back of his neck sent shivers down Hagon's spine, and before he could react in any way the priest was pushing his head under the water. At first he didn't fight back, merely clenching his teeth and staring into the darkness. However, with every passing second he became more aware that his life was at the hands of this priest, a priest best known for preaching against his family. Panic began to settle in, and Hagon started to struggle. However, he was too weak, or the Shrike's grip on his neck was too strong, and slowly he began to lose consciousness. Finally, he had no choice but to open his mouth and fill his lungs with seawater, and the world around him faded into abyss.

Soon Hagon woke up on the beach, vomiting the saltwater out of his lungs. He was feeling dizzy and weak, leaning against his elbows on the wet sand and taking in deep breaths. Slowly he raised his gaze to see the Shrike standing right next to him, and the court of Hoare Castle further behind. Some of the men were cheering as they saw their prince getting back up on his feet, while others looked concerned or even disappointed.

"It is done, my prince," Shrike said proudly, putting his hand on Hagon's shoulder. "Now you are truly a servant of the Drowned God."

"What is dead may never die," Hagon managed to utter, his breathing still heavy and his hands shivering slightly from the cold. "But rises again harder and stronger," Shrike concluded quietly, placing his clenched fist against his chest.


	5. Walton I

**Walton**

Summer sun shined from a clear blue sky, and a soft breeze was blowing in the woods near Horn Hill, making the leaves quiver ever so slightly. Otherwise it was completely silent, and Walton Manderly nervously stood as still as he could. Standing atop the leather glove on his left hand was a sparrowhawk with dark brown wings and white chest, a sharp gaze in its bright yellow eyes. Walton had named her Shadow, and this was the first time he had taken her hawking after several moons of training. Normally they would be on horseback with dogs flushing out the quarry, but Shadow still needed more training before she could work with the dogs.

Quietly Walton glanced behind, seeing Lord Symon Tarly and his two sons standing a dozen yards behind him, each of them with their own hawks. Walton had been Lord Symon's ward and squire for almost three years now, having been sent to Horn Hill a day after his eleventh nameday. He was almost a man grown now, and he did his best to act like it. Symon gave him an encouraging nod, and Walton turned his gaze forward again with determination in his eyes. _This time she'll do it._ Taking in a deep breath, he ringed the bell on his right hand, and a rabbit sprung from the underbrush a few yards away from Walton.

"Go Shadow!" he yelled as he extended his hand, and the sparrowhawk spread its wings to fly towards its prey. Shadow glided over the rabbit with her claws prepared to sink into it, and a triumphant smirk formed on Walton's face. However, as the hawk plunged into the killing blow, the rabbit jumped to left and just barely dodged Shadow's claws, escaping into the bushes.

Disappointedly Walton whistled, and soon Shadow flew back to his glove. With a sigh he gave her a treat and stroke her head softly for the effort. "She is still inexperienced, Walton," Symon spoke with his deep and compassionate voice, having walked beside him. "She'll be a fine hunter one day, believe me."

"Yes, mylord," Walton said quietly, though it was difficult to hide his disappointment. Symon's hawk had caught four rabbits that day, and his eldest son Triston's hawk two. Even the lord's younger son Ryam's hawk Huntress had managed to bring back one rabbit, and she hadn't been trained any longer than Shadow.

"I think we should head home. Six rabbits will make a fine stew," Triston stated calmly. He was the heir to Horn Hill, a young man of eighteen years, tall and sturdily built like his father. His brown hair had been cut relatively short, and around his mouth was a shadow of a beard.

"Already? But it's not even close to sundown yet," Ryam moaned, petting his grey-and-white goshawk. He was about a year younger than Walton, having had his thirteenth nameday a fortnight ago. Despite being younger, he was slightly taller than Walton, and was already starting to show a strong physique similar to his father and brother. When it came to skill with the sword Walton and Ryam were more or less equal, but the Tarly undeniably had the advantage when it came to raw strength. On the other hand, Walton considered himself better than Ryam in archery, reading and riding.

"The hawks have worked hard already, they deserve rest," Symon calmly responded to his younger son, already starting to walk towards their horses which were tied to an oak close by. "Besides, I'm getting hungry", he added with a grin on his face. "Come now boys, let's head home."

On the road back to Horn Hill Symon and Triston led the way, while Walton and Ryam rode a good couple dozen yards behind them. Ryam kept proudly describing how Huntress had caught its first prey, and Walton settled mostly to listening. It took less than half-an-hour for them to reach Horn Hill, and the sun was still high up as they rode in from the gates. At first they took their hawks to the mews, after which Walton and Ryam were tasked with taking the horses to the stables.

Walking back from the stables to the outer yard, Walton noticed Genna Tarly standing by the archway that led into the inner yard, together with her friend Darla Hunt. Genna was a year older than Walton, being the second daughter and third child of Lord Symon and Lady Marya. Walton had been crushing on her from the day he first arrived to Horn Hill three years ago, and getting to know her better over the years had only reinforced that feeling. She was sweet and kind, and her beautiful smile was always able to make Walton feel better. Unfortunately, situations where it'd be just the two of them without either Genna's brothers or friends around were extremely rare, and so far Walton had found no opportunity to reveal his feelings to her.

"Father told me to fetch you for the great hall," Genna spoke as Ryam and Walton approached her. "We havin' a feast?" Ryam asked with a raised eyebrow, but Genna shook her head. "No, but there's news from Highgarden," she explained as they made their way into the inner yard.

"From King Greydon?" Ryam asked excitedly. "What kind of news?"

"I don't know, Ryam," Genna answered with a sigh. "Let's just go to father, he'll tell."

And so they walked into the great hall, where Lord Symon was already waiting together with his wife Marya and their son Triston. Present were also the old and stern Maester Runcel and the jovial steward Jon Cordwayner, as well as few of the household knights, most notably Ser Halmon Hunt, the second son of Lord Harys Hunt. He was a tall and handsome man on his early thirties, with a pointy chin, high cheekbones, attentive blue eyes and a chestnut hair that was tied to a ponytail. Walton knew him mostly as an excellent archer whom he had learned a lot from personally, but outside of his marksmanship Halmon had a reputation as a lustful womanizer. Some rumors even said that he had a bastard in every town of the Reach. Walton had never dared to ask the man if this was true.

"Looks like everyone is here," Symon spoke up with a cheerful tone, on his hands a small piece of parchment, which he raised above his head. "This is a message from Highgarden. An invitation, to be precise."

"We've been invited to Highgarden?" Ryam asked, glancing excitedly at Walton who reciprocated his friend's smile. "All of the Reach has been invited to Highgarden," Lord Symon replied with a soft chuckle, handing the message to Maester Runcel now. "King Greydon's son and heir Prince Perceon has his thirtieth nameday in one moon from now, and the King has decided to arrange a grand tourney in celebration."

"A tourney in Highgarden?" Triston spoke up, sounding almost as excited as his little brother now. "Hundreds of knights, lord, ladies and singers from all over the Reach will be there," Genna spoke with a dreamy look in her eyes. "It will be so marvelous."

"I'll take part in the squire melee," Ryam announced, grinning from ear to ear. "There will be one, right?"

"I believe so, yes," Symon confirmed calmly. "As well as the regular melee, archery competition and the joust, all with great prices from the royal treasury for the victors. I'm thinking of taking part in the melee myself, although I don't expect to have much of a chance to win against the likes of Alester Oakheart or Benedict Bulwer. I assume you'll try your lucky on the archery contest, Ser Halmon?"

"Of course, my lord," Ser Halmon responded with a wolfish grin on his face. "Only it'll have nothing to do with luck."

"I'll take part in the joust," Triston spoke up determinedly, and his parents turned to look at him, Lord Symon with pride and Lady Marya with concern. "With all the knights of the kingdom there, the competition will be hard," Symon stated softly, and with just a hint of hesitation in his eyes Triston nodded. "I know, but I'm a man grown and an anointed knight now. I can handle it."

"Just… try not to hurt yourself too badly," Marya spoke quietly, clearly deeply concerned for her son's wellbeing. Symon put his arm around his wife in a comforting manner. "He says he can handle it, dear," he said with a warm tone, letting out a small wistful sigh. "And since he is a man grown now we have no choice but to take his word for it."

"Will you fight in the squire melee, Walton?" Ryam suddenly asked, shifting everyone's attention to them. "I… yeah, I think I will," Walton answered nervously, and Lord Symon gave him an approving nod.

"Your family will be there to watch," he pointed out with a friendly tone. Indeed, this tourney would be the first time he'd see most of his family in three years. His lord father Waymar had visited Horn Hill little over a year ago, but the rest he hadn't seen since the day he rode out of the gates of Dunstonbury. He remembered his mother Alicent had cried the morning he left, and his little sister Meliana had been jealous of him getting to see new places. His older sister Alyssa had been the same age that Walton was now, which was weird to think about. And then there was his older brother Andrew, who by now was already eighteen. He had told Walton to keep his chin up and represent House Manderly with pride in Horn Hill, and he had done his best to do just that throughout these past three years. _I wonder how they all have changed._

For the following weeks all anyone in Horn Hill could talk or think about was the coming tourney. Symon trained Ryam and Walton for the melee several hours on the courtyard every day, while Triston trained for the joust outside the castle walls with the master-at-arms Ser Gyles Oldflowers.

A week before the beginning of the tourney Lord Ilyn Vyrwel and his family came to visit Horn Hill. Walton knew that Tarlys and Vyrwels had always been close allies, but these days they were exceptionally close due to Lord Symon's firstborn daughter Tanda having married Lord Ilyn's heir Lyonel Vyrwel less than a year ago. Almost immediately after riding through the gates Lord Ilyn announced to the people of Horn Hill that Lady Tanda was carrying his son's child, which was received by applauds and cheers.

However, Walton focused his attention on Ser Lyonel's younger brother Ivar Vyrwel. He was a tall and strong young man of fifteen years, as well as the squire of his uncle Ser Gormon Vyrwel. There was no doubt he'd take part in the squire melee, and both Walton and Ryam knew from previous experience that he'd be a hard one to beat. "Hello, boys," Ivar greeted them with a condescending tone while his father and brother were conversing with Symon and Triston. "Planning to fight on the squire melee, aye?"

"Yes, we are," Ryam responded sternly, crossing his arms as he spoke. Ivar nodded with a tiny smirk. "Great," he said calmly, scanning both of them from head to toes with his brown eyes. "Try to stay out of my way though, unless you want the beating of your lifetime." With these words Ivar walked away from them, and Walton and Ryam exchanged an irritated glance.

A plentiful feast was held that night at the great hall, lords Tarly and Vyrwel sharing the high table with their wives and heirs. On a regular feast Walton, Ryam and Genna would be up there as well, but tonight they had to settle for one of the tables near the dais, where they sat together with Ivar and Darla Hunt. Fires were burning in all six hearths of the hall, eight green banners with the red huntsman of House Tarly hung on the walls, wine was flowing, and four musicians were playing cheerful songs up on the gallery.

"Any of you ever been to Oldtown?" Ivar asked casually, gulping down his wine and pouring more. "No. Why?" Ryam responded bluntly, to which Ivar reacted with a cold chuckle. "I was there with my uncle couple moons ago," he bragged with a haughty tone, leaning back on his chair. "You can't really understand how big that place is without seeing it yourself. All the sprawling cobblestone streets, narrow alleyways, crowded markets, shoddy taverns and luxurious mansions… it's easy to get lost in there. Within the walls of that city is its own world, separate from the rest of the kingdom, where wars are fought in shadows without the king in Highgarden having a clue."

"And what were _you_ doing there?" Walton asked sharply, glancing quickly at Genna and Darla who looked to be fascinated by Ivar's story. "Ah, Gormon's old pal from the city watch just needed some help," he responded nonchalantly. "Had to take care of a few thugs, that's all."

"You killed someone?" Ryam asked, and it was hard to tell if his voice was shocked or admiring. With a subtle smirk on his face Ivar nodded. "Well, Gormon and his pal did most of the killing, but I did cut down two of those criminal bastards myself."

Walton hated to admit it to himself, but in this moment he was jealous of Ivar. Not because of the killing, but because it was clear just how much more experience he had despite being just a year older than Walton, how much more of a man he already was. "Did you see the Citadel? What about the Starry Sept?" Darla asked enthusiastically, breaking the silence that was starting to get tense.

"Aye, they were there," Ivar responded with a soft chuckle. "Can't say I have much of an eye for such things, but I guess you could say they were pretty to look at. Wouldn't want to set foot inside either one though, mainly due to the people that occupy them."

"You have something against maesters and septons?" Genna asked curiously.

"Maesters are dull, but at least they stay mostly in their citadel," Ivar spoke with an amused tone. "The septons and their Faith Militant though, oh how they love to roam the streets and shove their message down everyone's throats. Spent barely a fortnight in Oldtown and had enough of that shit for a lifetime."

"But their message is that of the gods, right?" Darla asked with some confusion, and after hesitating a moment Ivar nodded. "I guess you could say so, yes," he said with a sigh. "They are men though, and just like everyone else in Oldtown they seek to control and own as much of her as they can."

"Sounds like a nasty place," Walton commented dryly, and Ivar gave him a nod. "It has its good sides as well," he replied with a sharp smirk.

The feast went on for hours, until by the midnight people slowly began to make their way out of the hall. Lord Ilyn and his wife were amongst the first to leave, Lady Vyrwel clearly being quite drunk. Walton himself had also had more wine than in a long time, and admittedly it was getting to his head. Seeing Genna and Darla getting up from the table and starting to make their way out, Walton brazenly caught up to them by the hall's entrance.

"Walton," Genna spoke with a surprised and amused tone as he stepped next to them. Walton flashed the girls a grin, and Genna looked at him questioningly. "Did you forget to tell us something?" she asked curiously, and Walton shook his head. "No, I just… I wanted to thank you for the company, it was a pleasant evening," he said, managing to maintain eye-contact with Genna. "And… good night, my ladies."

Genna giggled innocently at his words and turned her gaze down. "I think you've had a couple cups of wine too many, Walton," she remarked softly, tapping him gently on the shoulder. "Good night to you too though, and see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," Walton responded as Genna and Darla already continued to walk towards their chambers. With a sigh he felt the rush of excitement coming down and being replaced by disappointment. _How can I ever make her understand?_

With faltering steps Walton made his way out to the courtyard, and to his surprise he noticed faint light coming from within an open window of the smithy. _There is no reason for anyone to be in there at this hour_. Unable to curb his curiosity, Walton sneaked closer and began to hear talking.

"Greydon is not the kind of king who would turn a blind eye to infighting amongst his vassals," a stern voice that Walton didn't recognize spoke. "And if Lord Peake plans to start a war with the Manderlys, then he better anticipate all of Reach to start picking sides. The Fossoways and Raylans are with him, sure, and perhaps he'll be able to convince the Florents and Oakhearts as well, but what about the Hightowers, Osgreys and Redwynes? Hells, even our friend Symon's allegiances are questionable, he seems quite fond of that Manderly ward of his."

Tensed up, Walton creeped slightly closer to the open window, leaning under it without making a noise. "Relax, brother," the smooth voice of Lord Ilyn Vyrwel responded. "There will be no war, not yet. And when the time comes, it'll be done in a way that siding with the Manderlys will be seen as treason to the crown. As for Symon, who do you think he is more fond of, his firstborn daughter or his ward?"

Shocked about what he was hearing, Walton forgot himself for a moment and bumped his elbow against the timber wall of the smithy. "Did you hear that?" Ilyn said inside, and without hesitating a moment Walton got up on his feet and ran back inside the keep. He didn't look back, he had no idea if Lord Vyrwel had recognized him, but that night he didn't close his eyes for a second.


	6. Erich I

**Erich**

It was a hot and humid day on Cape Wrath, and Ser Erich Storm was sweating under his worn-out thick leather jerkin. Erich was a relatively young freerider of twenty and four years. He was of royal blood, being the bastard son of Princess Marleina Durrandon – the daughter of King Arlan the Third and wife of Lord Robert Connington. All Erich knew of his father was that he was a Dornish knight who had taken part in a tourney celebrating the betrothal of Marleina and Robert, and that was all he cared to know. All he ever inherited from his father were his distinct purple eyes, and the unyielding disdain of Lord Robert. The first eighteen years of his life he had lived in Griffin's Roost, enduring all the mockery and disrespect from the man who couldn't see him as his son, until six years ago he joined his grandfather King Arlan's army in his attempt to conquer the Dornish territories on the Red Mountains. The conquest itself was thwarted by the armies of Princess Nymeria, but it nonetheless gave Erich the opportunity to get away from Griffin's Roost and forge his own path in life. He was knighted by the king himself after the Battle by the Wyl, and after the war he had made his living as a traveling knight. Mostly he had served under the marcher lords, fighting against the Dornish raiders harassing their lands. However, this time he was heading towards Wrathtown, the seat of House Whitehead on the southern shore of Cape Wrath.

The weak breeze from the Sea of Dorne did little to cool Erich and his traveling companions in the agonizing heat. Erich was riding in the company of Ser Trystane Cole and Ser Cedrik Snakesbane. Trystane was an old and hardened knight on his late fifties, and veteran of both the war on Riverlands and the failed conquest of Dorne. Cedrik on the other hands was a skilled hedge knight on his mid-thirties, who had earned both his knighthood and nickname by allegedly slaying five knights of House Wyl in a single battle. He was the one who had heard about Lord Aron Whitehead hiring men for an unknown cause, which was an opportunity that Erich and Trystane had decided to pursue with him.

Six days ago they had began their journey from Stonehelm, riding the old coastal road to east. During their second day of traveling the mountainous terrain had begun to subside, being replaced at first by rolling green hills, and later during the third day by open fields and sandy white beaches. Dozens of watchtowers and small settlements were lined along the coast, offering Erich and his companions a roof to sleep under after each day of travelling. However, this was the day they expected to reach Wrathtown itself.

"So, ever been to Wrathtown before?" Cedrik asked calmly as they rode past an old lighthouse standing on a small granite cliff overlooking the calm sea. "Aye, several times," Trystane responded, baring his yellow teeth in a crooked grin behind his bushy grey beard. "Have some… how should I put it, sensual memories from there. How 'bout you Erich?"

"Never been," he answered honestly. During his childhood and youth he had rarely visited anywhere outside of Griffin's Roost, and the only memories he had regarding Wrathtown were about Lord Robert threatening that there was a ship there waiting to take Erich to the Wall in the North if he ever chose to disobey or disrespect him. "I'm looking forward to seeing the place though."

"It's a pretty nice place," Cedrik stated nonchalantly, an emotionless expression on his long and narrow face. "It's a bit smaller than Ashford, I think. You've been to Ashford, right?" he asked, and Erich nodded wordlessly, remembering the tourney he had took part in there three years ago. On the first round of the joust he had unhorsed an older knight of House Osgrey in the fourth tilt, but on the second round he lost to Ser Raymund Redwyne on the very first tilt. Erich knew Ser Raymund to be a famed member of the Order of the Green Hand as well as the royal guard of King Greydon Gardener, but that had made the experience no less humiliating for him.

As the sun neared the horizon in the west Erich and his companions finally saw Wrathtown standing by the sea, its peaked roofs and the tall stone tower of the Whiteheads reaching above the sturdy wooden walls. The northern gates of the town were open, but four guards clad in black-and-white gambesons stood there in duty.

"Identify yourself, and state your business in Wrathtown," one of the guards demanded before letting them through, and Trystane decided to speak for them. "I am Ser Trystane Cole, my companions are Ser Erich Storm and Ser Cedrik Snakesbane. We come after a word of Lord Whitehead hiring men to solve some kind of problem."

"Well, you're late," the guardsman said bluntly. "The problem you speak of is a pirate crew that has made their nest on the eastern shore of Wrathrock, and the ship sent to deal with them set sail three days ago. As for Lord Whitehead, he and his family began their ride to Storm's End yesterday."

"Storm's End? Why are they going to Storm's End?" Erich asked with a frown, and the guardsman gave him a surprised look. "You haven't heard?" he asked, letting out a sigh. "King Arlan is dead; may the gods judge him justly. His vassals across the Stormlands have been summoned to his funeral, and the following coronation of Prince Ormund."

"King Arlan is dead," Erich repeated quietly, taken aback by this revelation. He couldn't claim to have been particularly close with his grandfather but following him to war had certainly made him respect the man. He had been a fair and just ruler, but also a strong and determined commander. "Do you know how it happened?" Ser Trystane asked.

"He died of an illness. That is all I know, good sers," the guardsman answered with an earnest and mournful tone.

Quietly Erich, Trystane and Cedrik entered the town, taking their horses to the stables before heading to the first tavern they came across. It was a quiet evening with few customers, and it's fair to say Erich and his companions weren't in a festive mood either. Not only had they traveled here in vain, the news of Stormlands losing the greatest king she had had in generations was hard to accept.

"I fought beside him in Riverlands and Dorne," Trystane stated sullenly as he took a first gulp of his ale. "And damn was he a man worthy of my loyalty. So charismatic and steadfast, it was impossible not to be inspired when he rallied the troops for battle."

"A shame his last war ended as it did," Cedrik said quietly, and Trystane gave the hedge knight an almost disapproving glance. "It makes him no less of a great king," he argued sternly. "He doubled the territories under Durrandon rule, he was the first Storm King to raise the crowned stag banner on the coast of the Sunset Sea, he was beloved by both the common folk and the nobles."

"I understand, and I meant no disrespect," Cedrik replied with an apologetic tone, which was followed by silence. They all drank their mugs empty and ordered the barmaid to bring more. "So, any ideas for where to go next?" Cedrik asked calmly, glancing at both Trystane and Erich.

"I don't know about you, but I'm going to Storm's End," Erich answered quietly. "I want to give a proper farewell to my grandfather."

"I'm coming with you, pal," Trystane said with a mellow tone, tapping Erich lightly on the shoulder. Then he turned his gaze to Cedrik, who shrugged lazily. "I suppose I could come," he said nonchalantly. "Lords from all over the land will be there. Who knows, perhaps some of 'em would have a need for a couple of knights."

Next day they left Wrathtown at first light, riding with haste towards north. Few hours past noon they reached the fringes of the ancient and shadowy Rainwood. It was a wet and green forest filled with many sorts of trees that blocked out most of the sunlight, giving it an eerie and almost suffocating atmosphere. Following along the rough and winding paths through the thick forest, Erich spotted couple of weirwoods, many wild animals, dozens of little creeks and waterfalls, and endless amounts of strange dark caves that felt like they were calling for him. As the sun began to set Erich, Trystane and Cedrik made camp at the stony mouth of one of these caves.

"The Old Gods still reign over this forest," Trystane spoke as they sat around the fire, an almost fearful look in his tired green eyes. With a subtle gulp he glanced towards the endless darkness of the cave. "It is said that the children of the forest dwell inside these caves."

"And you believe it?" Cedrik asked with an amused tone.

"Perhaps you can prove me wrong then, aye?" Trystane responded strictly, a stern frown on his face. Cedrik rolled his eyes and let out a stifled chuckle. "Take it easy, old man," he said with a carefree tone. "I promise I'll defend you if grumkins and snarks crawl out of that cave during the night."

No grumkins or snarks came, and by the morn they continued their journey. An hour or two past noon they reached Mistwood, the seat of House Mertyns. Moss and vines climbed up the wooden walls surrounding the sturdy timber keep, its highest tower raising above even the tallest trees. Erich and his companions were offered some food and drink by Samwell Bolling, the old and fat castellan left in charge of the castle, who informed them that Lord Mertyns and his family had left three days ago, and the Whiteheads had spent the last night here and continued towards north in the morning. He offered them comfortable quarters to stay in for the night as well, but they decided to push forward without delay.

"Wouldn't have hurt to sleep in a soft bed for once," Cedrik grumbled as they rode out of Mistwood's gates. "You'll get to do that in Griffin's Roost," Erich responded unenthusiastically. He had not missed his home in the years that he had been gone, and part of him hoped that the Conningtons would've already left by the time they'd arrive to Griffin's Roost. He did love his mother of course, in that a man had little choice, but towards everyone else in that castle he felt either dislike or indifference. They weren't all bad people of course, Erich could even tell that some of them had felt sympathy towards him, but few ever dared to show much affection towards the shunned bastard.

The next day they caught up with Lord Aron Whitehead and his entourage of about twenty people. This included his wife, son and two daughters, few handmaidens and knights, as well as a dozen common soldiers. At the age of thirty and two Aron was remarkably young for a lord, and even more remarkable was the fact that he had had his position for over fifteen years now. His father had fell in the Battle of Six Kings in Riverlands, or so Trystane had told Erich.

"Few more capable swords at your side on the road can never hurt," Lord Aron responded jovially as Trystane offered him their protection for the rest of the journey.

"We visited Wrathtown and heard about your problems with the pirates," Cedrik brought up casually. Aron nodded, his blue eyes suddenly filled with frustration. "Increasingly common nuisance during these past few years," he said with a displeased tone. "No doubt a result of the prolonged conflict between Tyrosh and Myr."

Erich had heard a few times in the past about the war between the two free cities, and as far as he understood its original cause was Myrish magisters' frustration with the heavy taxation and constant raiding of their merchant ships sailing through Tyroshi waters. "What does the war between Myr and Tyrosh have to do with pirates on Wrathrock?" Erich asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Two large city-states focusing their wealth on expanding their fleets and hiring men to sail for five years is a recipe for pirate infestation," Lord Whitehead explained with a sigh. "Last I heard there were three competing pirate kings on the Stepstones, each with dozens of crews under their command. And those crews who would rather not follow a king seek their luck on different waters. Lords Estermont and Tarth have no doubt faced problems similar to mine."

"Myr and Tyrosh are both vassals of the Valyrian Freehold, are they not?" Trystane asked, and Aron nodded. "So, why have the dragonlords not interfered in this quarrel between their subjects?"

"Hard to say, but perhaps they simply don't care," the lord responded with a jaded tone. "They rule a massive empire spanning from the Narrow Sea to Slaver's Bay. A conflict between two cities at the edge of their territory might seem like a minor nuisance to them."

"Then they are bad rulers," Trystane stated coldly, and Lord Aron smiled thinly. "On that we can certainly agree, good ser."

It took them six more days of travel before they finally reached Griffin's Roost. It was a cloudy and windy afternoon as they approached the griffin's throat – the long natural ridge leading up to the castle that was built atop a lofty crag overlooking the restless waters of Shipbreaker Bay. At the gatehouse guarding the ridge they were welcomed by Ser Jarmen Wensington, the same man who had overseen this post six years ago. By now on his early fifties, Ser Jarmen had gained some weight since Erich last saw him, and the brown hair on his head had begun to recede.

"Ah, more noble guests, welcome to Griffin's Roost" Jarmen spoke with a deep bow as the entourage led by Lord Whitehead walked through the open gates. "Lords Mertyns, Morrigen and Rogers are here as well. Together with Lord Robert they are all planning to set sail towards Storm's End tomorrow. There should be enough room in the ships for you and your family as well, Lord Whitehead."

"Thank you, ser," Aron responded politely.

Escorting them through the ridge to the main gates of the castle, Erich noticed Jarmen glancing at him a few times, clearly recognizing him. However, he said naught, and headed back towards the gatehouse as soon as Lord Aron's entourage entered the Griffin's Roost. Inside the walls Erich noticed many more familiar people glancing at him, enough to make him feel slightly uncomfortable. This place held many bitter memories that he would rather forget, and just being here made him feel like the lonely and condemned bastard boy he had been throughout his childhood.

As the stableboys took their horses for the stables, Lord Robert Connington himself approached them on the courtyard. He looked very similar to how Erich remembered him, with his red hair cut short and a humorless and bitter expression on his broad and angular face. Before addressing Lord Whitehead, Robert glared at Erich for a couple of seconds, mutual resentment in both of their eyes.

Courteously Lord Robert welcomed Lord Aron and his family to his halls, and commanded few of his servants to find quarters for all of them. As they were making their way inside the main keep built of red stone, Robert stepped in front of Erich. "Not you," he said coldly, and so the two of them remained on the courtyard. A tense moment of silence followed, until finally Robert let out a sigh and spoke up. "I had hoped you'd never set foot in this castle again, bastard," he spoke, his voice devoid of any passion or emotion. "But since you're here anyway, I'm sure your mother would like to meet you."

Wordlessly Erich followed after his stepfather inside, and in silence they made their way to the large eastern tower where most of the noble quarters were situated. "Why have you come?" Robert asked sternly as they made their way up the stairway, not even bothering to look at Erich as he spoke.

"Just on my way to King Arlan's funeral, I'm not planning to stay," he responded sharply, seeing a small and satisfied smile forming on Robert's face. "Good," he said nonchalantly. "I trust you will say that to your mother as well. She is going to ask you to stay."

Erich didn't bother with responding, and so they continued in silence all the way to Princess Marleina's chambers. Robert knocked lightly on the door, before opening it and stepping in with Erich following in his coattails. Marleina sat there by the arched window, a half-empty carafe of red wine on the table in front of her. She was dressed in a simple black velvet dress in mourning of her father, and her dark hair was tied to a bun. Quietly Marleina turned to look who had entered her room, and as her gaze shifted from Robert to Erich her eyes widened in surprise and shock. "E-Erich," she stuttered weakly, tears immediately welling up in her blue eyes. It was said that in her youth Princess Marleina had been the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, but the years had surely taken their toll on her. Now on her early forties her once graceful figure was plump and slightly hunched, her once delicate face was broad and puffy, and under her plaintive eyes hung heavy dark bags.

"Mother," Erich responded softly to her, and with a noise resembling both laughter and wailing Marleina rushed up from her chair to embrace her son in a tight hug. As they separated, Marleina turned her gaze to Robert, her eyes filled with disbelief. "What is this?" she asked thinly, her voice somehow managing to be simultaneously overjoyed and worried.

"He came with Lord Whitehead," Robert spoke with a cold and resentful expression on his face, now glaring at Erich as if pressing him to explain himself. "I heard about grandfather's passing in Wrathtown," he started awkwardly, his eyes shifting between Marleina and Robert. "I thought I should… pay my respects and give a proper farewell to his grace."

Marleina nodded approvingly, wiping the tears from her cheeks and grabbing Erich's right hand. "You don't know how badly I've missed you, son," she said with an emotional tone, gulping as she tightened her grip. Erich gave a meaningful glance towards Robert, and Marleina seemed to understand what he meant. "Could I have a moment in private with my son, please?" she asked with a demanding tone. Robert narrowed his eyes, clearly wanting to say something back, but instead he just left the room without a word.

"I've missed you too, mother," Erich said calmly as the door was closed. "I'm sorry I never came to visit, it's just this place, it's… I don't want to call this place a home ever again."

His mother closed him to another hug, pressing her face against his chest and sobbing. "It could be different this time, I could make sure Robert treats you fairly," she pleaded, but Erich shook his head. "Mother, he doesn't want me here," he said with a sigh, separating from Marleina and walking to the window. For a moment he just looked down at the waves smashing against the red cliffs beneath the castle. "I'm my own man now, and I have a life outside of here," he spoke calmly, turning around to give an empathic look at his mother. She had once been his only solace and comfort in life, and it felt bad to now deny her of having something similar in him. _It just wouldn't work._

"I understand," Marleina said with a defeated tone, sitting down on her chair again. Erich took the seat on the opposite side of the table and looked his mother to the eyes. "I'm not the only child you have, mother," he reminded softly. "How are Roslin and Rupert doing?" Erich asked this purely out of sympathy towards his mother, as in truth he didn't care much for his half-siblings. They were both more than half a decade younger than him, and he had never been close with either. _Robert made sure of that._

"Roslin married Ser Endrew Fell seven moons ago, and Rupert… well, Rupert is his father's son," Marleina explained with a deep sigh, pouring more wine to her glass. "Do you want?" she then asked, but Erich shook his head. Marleina took a sip of the wine and turned her gaze towards the window again. "I just feel so… trapped and alone here," she said with a pained expression on her face. "Wasting away, useless and worn out."

Gently Erich placed his hand atop his mother's. He hesitated for a few seconds, struggling to find words to comfort her. "You're a Durrandon, mother, the great Storm Princess," he finally spoke with an encouraging tone, to which Marleina reacted with a weak chuckle. "How little such things matter in the end," she spoke quietly, and Erich wasn't sure if those words were even directed to him.

For a moment silence lingered in the room, fire cracking in the fireplace and the wind howling outside. "We left so much unspoken," Marleina suddenly spoke up again, and Erich looked at her with a raised eyebrow. " _I_ left so much untold."

"If you're talking about my father, it doesn't matter," Erich reassured. "I don't need to know who he was, he was never a real father to me anyway."

Marleina looked at him with a vulnerable gaze, clearly feeling guilty. "Truth is, he never even knew about you," she spoke with tears streaming down her cheeks again. "He was long gone when I realized I was carrying a child, and I never even attempted to contact him. I was too afraid, too weak, and I have regretted it for a long time. Now I don't know if he is alive or dead, if he has a family of his own… all I have is the memory of that one beautiful night I spent with him. And you. Oh yes, you look so much like him."

"Who… was he?" Erich asked quietly, surprising even himself with this question. There had been times in his childhood when he had craved to know more about the mysterious knight who had conceived him, but such curiosity had long ago been replaced with nothing but hatred towards the man he never knew. However, hearing his mother speak of it now so openly, it rekindled the curiosity he thought he had lost.

"His name was Jamison Dayne," Marleina revealed, turning her gaze down. "Second son of King Vorian Dayne, Prince of Starfall, Sword of the Night. I can't say I knew him well, but he was one of the greatest knights I had ever seen, and a charismatic and handsome man on top of that."

Erich wasn't sure how to feel about this. It turned out he was of royal blood from both sides, but what did that even change? He was still just as much a bastard, and no matter how great a man his father had been, he hadn't really been a father to him.

"Where do you plan to go after Arlan's funeral?" Marleina asked after they had both been silent for a drawn-out moment. "I don't know," Erich answered truthfully, taking in a deep breath. "There's always plenty of work on the marches, might head back there."

"Or you could pledge your sword to my brother," Marleina suggested. "He'll accept your service, I know he will, and then you could remain in Storm's End. And perhaps… perhaps I could too."

"And what would Robert think of that?" Erich asked doubtingly, but Marleina shook her head now with a furious look in her blue eyes. "Screw what he thinks," she said with a surprising determination in her words. "It is as you said, I am a Durrandon, and I will do as I please." She smiled now, and Erich reciprocated the expression.

"Ours is the fury," he said softly, and Marleina nodded enthusiastically. "Ours," she reinforced emotionally, grabbing tightly onto her son's hand.


	7. Lyonel II

**Lyonel**

It was a calm and clear early evening in Raventree Hall, and the godswood was crowded with riverlander nobility, all of them gathered beneath the great weirwood tree. Lyonel Bracken was standing on the second line, right behind Robert and Ronas Blackwood. He was dressed in his finest red satin doublet paired with a dark fur cloak, his blond hair was neatly combed, and he had even trimmed his beard for the occasion.

Quietly Lyonel shifted his gaze towards the heart tree, where Lord Brydan Blackwood was standing alone with the red-and-black bride's cloak resting on his hands. Brydan was a man grown, being already twenty and three, but looking at him standing there Lyonel couldn't help but be reminded of the scared little boy the Lord of Raventree Hall had been fifteen years ago in his father's funeral. Nonetheless he appeared lordly and handsome now, dressed in a fine red silk garb adorned with black patterns and a black wool cape held up by a silver buckle in the shape of a raven. His medium-length brown hair was neatly combed back, he had shaven his stubble beard, and on his green eyes was a happy if also a bit nervous expression.

Bells were rung by the entrance of the godswood, and with some murmur the people turned to look that way. There stood Lord Everan Tully with a proud expression on his clean-shaven face, holding the hand of his beautiful daughter Ellyn. As they begun walking towards the heart tree, Robert Blackwood quietly moved next to his nephew and took the bride's cloak from him.

Ellyn's lean figure was concealed by the maiden's cloak in the colors of House Tully, and underneath it was a white satin gown with beautiful gold trimmings. Her wavy auburn hair was tied to two braids that rested on her shoulders, her full red lips formed a small smile making tiny dimples on her round and freckled cheeks, and on her blue eyes was a keen and kindly look.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this day?" Robert asked with a formal tone, which Lord Everan reciprocated in his answer. "Ellyn Tully, a woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"

Brydan stepped forward now, clearing his throat before speaking up. "Brydan of House Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall, and Warden of the Riverlands under the Storm King," he announced himself calmly. "Who gives her?"

"Her father, Everan of House Tully, Lord of Riverrun," Everan responded proudly. He let go of Ellyn's hand and gave her an approving nod, before taking a step back. "Lady Ellyn, do you take this man?" Lord Robert asked ceremonially.

"I take this man," Ellyn answered softly, and with a sweet and confident smile on her face she approached Brydan, who gently took her hand. Together they knelt in front of the ancient face carved into the weirwood and bowed down their heads to honor the Old Gods. There they remained in silence for a full minute, and only the croaking of the ravens could be heard in the godswood. Finally, Brydan got back on his feet and helped Ellyn up as well. Quietly she turned her back for him, and he removed the red-and-blue maiden's cloak from her shoulders. He handed it to his uncle Robert, who in turn handed him back the red-and-black bride's cloak. Carefully Brydan laid the cloak over Ellyn's shoulders, and she turned to face him again. For a couple of seconds the two just looked at each other, until Brydan spoke up. "With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife," he announced, before embracing into a short and gentle kiss with his bride, to which all the guests reacted with cheers and applauds. With a nervous grin on his face Brydan raised Ellyn to his arms, and so they begun to make their way to the feast at the great hall.

And a lavish feast it was, so lavish that Lyonel had to wonder if it had been wiser to be more sparing at the face of a coming winter. However, he wasn't left with much time to worry about that as he sat between his brothers Robb and Horas, who kept pouring him more wine mug after mug while inquiring him about the recent affairs of Raventree Hall. Lyonel told them about the time the castle's steward Olyvar Chambers was tricked by the squires to drink horse piss, then about the time when Ronas challenged a visiting freerider to a horse race and lost twenty gold, and finally he found himself describing to his brothers how Prince Barron Durrandon had once on a feast drunkenly climbed on the table and started to sing a bawdy song.

"So, how are things at Stone Hedge these days?" Lyonel finally managed to ask his brothers, and after exchanging a look with Horas, Lord Robb decided to answer. "It's all good, for the most part," he started, taking a sip from the mead before continuing. "Ronnel is almost a man grown now, and it's getting harder to keep him in line when he gets his foolish ideas. Just a couple weeks ago he rode to Harroway with his pal Tristan Lychester without asking for my permission. No doubt they went whoring. Guess you could even say it's natural for lads that age, I just hope the boy at least had enough wits with him to not father a bastard."

"Planning to find him a bride any time soon?" Lyonel asked casually.

"Aye, I've been thinking about it," Robb responded with a sigh. "Lord Michael Darry has been constantly expressing me his willingness to wed his daughter with Ronnel. No doubt he'll be doing it again tonight," he said, glancing at few tables behind him where the stocky and loud Lord Darry was laughing drunkenly at something a Mooton knight sitting next to him had said.

"I say you should agree to it already. Minisa Darry is a fine lass, certainly good enough for Ronnel," Horas commented with his calm and relaxed voice. At thirty and three he was the youngest of the Bracken brothers, as well as the only anointed knight. He had not fought in Roderick's rebellion, having remained holding Stone Hedge together with their uncle Ser Elric Bracken, who to this day still served as the castellan.

"I have nothing against the girl, or his father for that matter, but the Bracken name simply carries more weight than that of the Darrys," Robb stated calmly. "That's not to say we can never join in marriage with houses of lesser prestige, it has been done before many times, but it shouldn't be something achieved as easily as simply asking. To marry the Lord of Stone Hedge has been a great honor and privilege throughout the ages, and so it should remain. We mustn't forget our pride, or others will as well."

Lyonel smirked subtly, Robb's words reminding him of their father. Robb himself had married Lady Hanna of House Paege about a year before the war, after almost two years of begging Lord Emmon to agree to it. _I can only imagine how many times he had to listen through that lecture about the pride and prestige of House Bracken._

"I have to go for a leak," Lyonel said to his brothers, standing up from his seat and starting to walk through the noisy hall. However, before he could reach the door he was approached by an old and portly man. Perhaps on his late fifties, the man was balding and there were grey specks in his brown beard. He was dressed in a green wool doublet with silver trimmings, and a silver tree embroidered on the chest. _House Harlton,_ Lyonel realized.

"Ser Lyonel Bracken?" the old man greeted him with a questioning tone, and Lyonel nodded. "Not a ser, mylord, but I am Lyonel Bracken," he responded calmly. "I take it you are Lord Armond Harlton?"

"Indeed," the man responded with a thin smile. "I suggest we continue this conversation outside," he said quietly, glancing at the servant maids and guardsmen nearby. Lyonel nodded approvingly, and so they made their way out to the inner yard.

"I recall having a conversation with Lord Emmon on this yard during the war," Armond stated tensely, his attentive green eyes studying Lyonel's face. "He was a proud and honorable man, your father. However, what I remember most vividly about him is his fearlessness, the sheer unwillingness to be afraid or cower before the danger. A trait I must admit I've never had myself."

"At least you had the courage to answer honestly to Prince Barron's message," Lyonel remarked. "You were the only one out of the lords he contacted."

"Mm, I fear the rest have already turned against the Storm King's rule," Armond responded grimly. "Stoney Sept is on the lands of Lord Hoster Keath and he hasn't lifted a finger to keep the Faith Militant in line, proving himself to be just as much of a coward as he was during the last war. It's well known that Lord Roland Vance has never been in favor of the Storm King, and Lord Tommard Smallwood… I doubt even the gods know what goes through that man's head."

"Prince Barron tasked me with investigating the situation," Lyonel said, and Armond nodded. "Yes, Lord Ronas told me. However, I'm afraid that it'll take more than one man to solve this mess."

"If so, if this escalates into a war, we can trust in the Storm King's protection," Lyonel assured confidently, but Lord Harlton narrowed his eyes in doubt. "Can we?" he asked quietly, taking in a deep breath. "If we were speaking of King Arlan I would agree, but his son is a stranger to me. For all we know he is not committed to protecting Riverlands the way his father was."

"Don't forget that two of Roderick's daughters are still in Storm's End, one of them Prince Ormund's wife," Lyonel pointed out. "And Prince Barron is fully committed to protecting Riverlands as well, I can assure you that."

"I hope you're right," Armond said with a sigh, already turning back towards the entrance of the great hall. "Nonetheless, you should rest well tonight, Bracken. We leave for Castlewood tomorrow."

Lyonel took Lord Harlton's advice and headed to bed right after the bedding ceremony of Brydan and Ellyn. Next morning, he woke up with an uneasy feeling. The cheerful mood of the wedding night was gone, replaced by nervous anticipation for the mission ahead.

After having his breakfast Lyonel was summoned to the lord's solar on the third floor. Walking into the large and lavishly decorated room, he saw Lord Brydan already sitting at the head of the long table and having a conversation with Ronas, Robert and Armond.

"…attempt to take Trident Hall," Robert Blackwood spoke to his nephew as Lyonel approached the table. "Ah, Lyonel, we were just speaking of this pretender king in Stoney Sept," Brydan spoke calmly, a tense expression on his face.

"Lucifer Justman," Lyonel responded with a nod, taking the seat next to Lord Armond.

"Lucifer the Liar," Robert grumbled bitterly, and Lyonel noticed an amused smirk forming on Ronas' face. "Whatever we call him, it seems evident that he has begun to gain support," Lord Armond spoke sternly. "If he assembles an army, my lands will be the first in danger."

"I understand," Brydan responded, a touch of frustration in his words. "However, before I begin to prepare for war I will need evidence that the enemy is real, that this pretender king exists."

"I shall provide you with that evidence, my lord," Lyonel assured calmly, and Brydan looked at him with a grateful expression. "You will be doing a great service for this land, Lyonel," he said with a relieved tone. "Hopefully this can be resolved without further violence."

"Seems unlikely, my lord," Armond said with a jaded tone. "The Warrior's Sons are fanatics, they will not see reason."

"You may be right, but the Faith Militant alone cannot threaten us, they need allies," Brydan remarked sharply. "If we were to expose this Lucifer as the fraud he is, the riverlords supporting him would have no choice but to abandon the cause."

"That's an optimistic way to look at it," Ronas commented cynically. "Just as likely they will continue to follow him regardless, or simply choose another king from their ranks."

"We'll worry about that then," Lyonel said with a sigh. "Now, let's just concentrate on the issue at hand."

"Agreed," Armond said dryly. "Which brings to mind, what kind of evidence exactly would convince you to start amassing your armies, Lord Brydan?"

"Word from a man I trust will be enough," Brydan responded, shifting his gaze back to Lyonel. "As I said, I shall provide the evidence, my lord," he assured again, and the young lord nodded approvingly.

"May the gods protect you, Lyonel Bracken," Brydan said with a grateful tone, and Lyonel thought he could even spot a hint of concern in his words. And with that the meeting was over. However, as Robert and Armond made their way out of the solar, Lady Ellyn entered. She was accompanied by a lanky redheaded boy, thirteen years old at most. The young lady looked as pretty as always, if also a bit tired, wearing her wavy red hair open now. She gave a meaningful look at Brydan, who then spoke up.

"Lyonel, there is one more thing I'd like to give you for this mission," he said with a soft smile forming on his face, gesturing towards Ellyn and the boy. "Mylord, this is my cousin, Axel Rivers," Ellyn introduced the boy to Lyonel. "A squire to aid you on your journey. You can consider it as House Tully's humble contribution for this important mission."

"Hello, ser," Axel spoke with a respectful tone, a slightly nervous but excited expression on his face. "I'm no knight," Lyonel informed the boy with a relaxed tone, but extended his hand for him anyway. "But if that's no problem, then I'll gladly accept your service."

"It's no problem," Axel responded with a slightly uncertain tone, glancing at Ellyn as he shook Lyonel's hand. "I heard you fought in the Battle of Six Kings, se… I mean…"

"You can just call me Lyonel," he cut the boy off with a friendly tone. "And yes, I did fight in the Battle of Six Kings, 'twas the worst day of my life." Axel looked a bit taken aback by his comment but nodded respectfully nonetheless.

"So, have you been trained in combat, boy?" Lyonel asked calmly.

"Yes, I have. Sword, spear and lance," Axel answered proudly. "My dream is to one day be the greatest knight in all of Riverlands."

Ellyn tapped her cousin gently on the shoulder. "As you see, he is eager to serve," she said with a small chuckle, and Lyonel gave the lady a nod. "I'll take good care of the lad, mylady," he promised.

Lyonel packed his arms and armors, as did his new squire, and by noon they met with Armond at the gates. Lord Harlton had traveled to Raventree Hall lightly, accompanied only by six of his household guards, one of them being their one-eyed captain Ser Gared Grey, who had lost his left eye in the Battle of Six Kings. Lyonel and Axel fetched their horses from the stables, and so they were on their way.

It was a grey and cloudy day with some light showers every now and then. They rode through the hilly lands of House Blackwood, past the light woods, green meadows, small villages and farmlands, until couple hours before sundown they finally arrived at the Red Fork. One of the three branches of Trident, Red Fork had its headwaters in the mountains of the Kingdom of Rock and flowed from there past Pinkmaiden and Sherrer to the Riverrun where it converged with Tumblestone. From there the river continued east past the Stone Hedge and all the way to the Harroway's Town, where it finally joined the great Trident.

The entourage led by Lord Harlton crossed the river by an old stony bridge and headed to a two-story inn standing nearby at the southern riverbank. 'Drunken Ferryman' it was called, and above its door was a painted sign depicting a man about to tumble from his ferry to the muddy brown water. Right next to the inn were river docks where merchants plying between Harroway and Riverrun docked regularly to sell their goods and buy grain and other crops from the people of the nearby lands.

Being located less than a day's ride to west from Stone Hedge this inn was a familiar one for Lyonel. The last time he had been here was more than five years ago, but not much had changed since then. On the wall next to the backroom's door still hung the same tapestry depicting the lords of Bracken and Blackwood standing side-by-side on a battlefield against seven Andal knights. It was a retelling of the legendary Battle of Bitter River from the times of the Andal invasion, one of the few times in history that Blackwoods and Brackens had rallied together against a common enemy. The battle however had ended in a bitter defeat, after which the Brackens had submitted to the Andals and took up their faith, while Blackwoods had stubbornly clung on to their old traditions, as they still did thousands of years later.

After ordering some food and ale they seated themselves by two tables near the stairway leading up to the rooms on the upper floor. Lyonel, Axel, Armond and Gared took the table by the window looking towards the river, and the rest of the soldiers took the one next to it. The hall was fairly crowded, but the innkeep had nonetheless promised there to be enough free beds for all of them.

"So, your father is Lord Everan's brother, right?" Lyonel asked from his squire as he took the first sip of the ale, which was just as good as he remembered. "Aye," Axel responded with a relaxed tone, eyeing his foaming mug of ale excitedly. "Ser Andar Tully, captain of the guard in Riverrun. And my mother was a fisherman's daughter from Sallydance." The nonchalant way that Axel said this made Lyonel chuckle softly.

"I met your father couple years back in the tourney at Pinkmaiden," Ser Gared said with his gruff voice. "He was unhorsed on the third round by Ser Barristan Blanetree, who went on to win against Ser Harlen Vance on the final round."

"Yeah, I was there, squiring for my father," Axel responded with a nod, taking the first gulp of his ale and frowning slightly at the taste. "I still remember that last joust, it was glorious. Ser Barristan and Ser Harlen going against each other for fourteen tilts, breaking eight lances and five shields in the process."

"Aye, it was quite glorious indeed," Gared replied with a hearty laugh.

Before any of them could say anything more, the door of the tavern was loudly slammed open. The chatter in the hall quieted down, and everyone shifted their gazes towards the door. In walked a group of eight men and three women, all clad in white surcoats with red seven-pointed star badges sewed on the chest. Most of them wore padded leather or wool under their surcoats, and were armed with mere cudgels, axes or knives. The only exception was the burly red-haired man leading them, who was clad in chainmail and carried a castle-forged sword on his hip.

"Faith Militant," Gared muttered sternly as the group conversed with the innkeep at the counter. "Poor Fellows," Lord Armond specified with a resentful stone, glaring at them coldly. Poor Fellows were the footmen of the Faith Militant, a lowborn and lightly-armed counterpart of the knightly Warrior's Sons. This was the first time since the fall of House Teague that Lyonel saw them patrolling this far away from Stoney Sept.

Tense atmosphere took over the hall as the Poor Fellows walked past the tables of Lord Harlton's entourage. Without saying a word they made their way to a couple of tables near the fireplace at the opposite wall, from where they kept eyeing Armond and his men. Slowly the chatter and noise returned to the hall, as it came clear the situation wasn't about to escalate into a fight.

"Poor Fellows on Bracken lands? They're getting bold," Lyonel said quietly, and Armond gave him a nod. "A bad omen," he muttered grimly.

An hour or so went by, and then the burly redhead decided to approach Lord Harlton's table. "Evening, sers," he greeted them calmly, to which they reacted with mere glares. "Just wanted to make a deal with you," the man continued. "You see, the innkeep informed us that there are only three beds available for tonight, and I thought it's kind of unfair that all of you will get to sleep in soft beds while eight of mine will have to settle for the hard floor."

"You're speaking to a lord," Ser Gared spoke up with a threatening tone, to which the man reacted with a grin. "A lord of what?" he asked with an unimpressed tone, his eyes scanning Armond from head to toes.

"I am Armond Harlton, Lord of Castlewood," Armond introduced himself sternly.

"And I'm Ben the Brute, captain of the Poor Fellows," the man responded with a snarky tone. "Look, I'm not here to pick a fight with you, m'lord. I simply want to make a compromise. Give four of your beds to my men and I'm happy."

"You're far away from Stoney Sept," Lyonel joined the conversation with a calm tone. "What exactly are you doing here?"

"The duty of the Poor Fellows is to protect the weak and helpless everywhere, not just Stoney Sept," Ben responded, his tone slightly more serious now. "But these lands are under the rule of House Bracken. Do you not trust them with the protection of their own people?" Lyonel asked smoothly, and Ben narrowed his eyes into a glare.

"Brackens bow to Storm King, who is an enemy of the Faith," he stated tensely, looking Lyonel to the eyes. "They are godless men, cowards and sinners who have led this kingdom into the pitiful state that it's in."

Lyonel clenched his fists under the table, glancing behind Ben and seeing that some of the other Poor Fellows had also stood up from their seats. Tense silence lingered in the hall, and Lyonel could see from the eyes of Ben the Brute that he was ready for a fight.

"You may take four of our beds," Lord Armond suddenly interfered with an authoritative tone, and Ben looked at him with a surprised expression. "Thank you, m'lord," he finally managed to utter, an almost disappointed tone on his voice. "That's all I wanted," he added before heading back to his group.

"We must choose our battles wisely," Armond said quietly, his eyes shifting between Gared and Lyonel. "There is nothing for us to gain in this fight, so we shall avoid it. The time to draw blood will come, but we must be patient."


	8. Walton II

**Walton**

Walton Manderly stood silently in his chambers, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His gaze traveled from his blond locks of hair that fell on his shoulders to his weak chin, to his pointy nose, and finally to his bright blue eyes. There was a fearful look in them. Walton frowned, trying his best to replace the fear with anger.

It was the second morning after he had overheard Lord Ilyn Vyrwel's conversation with his brother about Lord Peake having plans to start a war against Manderlys. Walton still didn't know if Ilyn had recognized him when he ran away, but he had noticed him eyeing at him the next day. He had considered talking about what he had heard to someone, but he didn't know who he should talk to. He feared Lord Symon wouldn't believe him, or worse he would side with Ilyn. He had also considered talking about it to Ryam, but he knew he couldn't trust his friend to keep a secret like that. So, in the end Walton had decided to keep quiet about it for now and talk about it to his father during the tourney in Highgarden.

Suddenly the door was knocked on, and Walton tensed up. He turned away from the mirror and picked up a knife from the table, hiding it in his sleeve. Carefully he opened the door, seeing Symon Tarly standing there with an amiable expression on his face. "Are you done packing?" he asked casually, and Walton nodded.

"Aye, I've got everything I need," he answered, gesturing towards the chest he had packed his armor and clothes in. "Good," Symon said with a relaxed tone as he stepped in. "We can carry it to the cart then."

As Walton remained silent for a moment, Symon gave him a questioning look. "Is everything alright, Walton?" he asked calmly. Walton turned his gaze down and gulped subtly, before plucking up his courage and speaking up. "What if there would be another war between the Manderlys and Peakes?" he asked quietly, to which Symon reacted with a frown.

"Maester Runcel has been teaching you history lately, aye?" the Tarly lord asked with a sigh, and Walton nodded. In truth he had learnt about the wars between his house and the Peakes long before coming to Horn Hill, but this offered a good enough excuse to talk about it. "I'm sure he didn't forget to mention that the last conflict between Manderlys and Peakes was two centuries ago," Symon added with calm but serious tone.

"I know, but our houses never truly made peace," Walton argued. "Perhaps Lord Peake still sees my family as his enemy, perhaps he is planning something."

"I know your father well enough to know that he won't make the mistakes that his ancestors did," Symon replied softly. "And as for Lord Lorimar, admittedly I don't know him quite as well, but he has a reputation as an honorable man. And more importantly, the last war between Peakes and Manderlys was a result of a weak and foolish king, and Greydon is neither."

"But if it would happen, if another civil war were to break out, who would you fight for?" Walton asked nervously. Symon narrowed his eyes and studied his ward's face for a moment, before finally speaking up. "I would do whatever was the right thing to do," he said calmly, turning his eyes away from Walton for a moment. "This is a rather strange choice of topic, I must say. Is there something you want to tell me, Walton?" he then asked quietly, a sharp look in his eyes.

"No," Walton said after hesitating a moment. "It's just like you said, Maester Runcel has been teaching us about the history between House Peake and House Manderly."

Symon eyed him doubtingly for a couple seconds, before finally nodding. "Alright, then," he said with the warm smile returning to his face. "Come, let's grab your chest and go. It's about time we're on our way to Highgarden."

And so, the entourage of over fifty people and three carts carrying their belongings began the journey from Horn Hill to Highgarden. A lone rider could travel the distance in one day, but a large entourage like this was slow moving.

During the day Walton rode together with Ryam and Ivar Vyrwel. They took races through the hills, explored the woods around the road, and debated endlessly about who would win the joust in the tourney. Ryam was convinced that Ser Raymund Redwyne – the commander of King Greydon's royal guard – would be the clear winner, while Ivar argued that the Redwyne knight was already past his prime and would be bested by the younger Ser Manfryd Osgrey. Walton brought up his second cousin Ser Willam Manderly as a potential challenger, but neither Ryam or Ivar seemed to take him seriously.

Come evening the entourage had barely made it out of the foothills of the Red Mountains, stopping for the night at a large inn on the fringes of House Tarly's lands. At dawn they continued their journey, and a few hours before sundown they finally reached Highgarden.

The shining seat of the Gardener kings overlooked the verdant and fertile lands around it, basking under the evening sun. Two ancient sturdy square towers remained from before the Dornish had razed the castle to the ground two centuries ago, whereas the towers built after that were tall and slender with golden cone roofs. The glorious castle was guarded by three ringed walls, a briar maze between the outer and middle wall. Vines of grape, ivy and rose climbed up the walls and towers, contrasting the clean white stone with vibrant colors.

On the meadow east of the castle the tourney field had been set up, and hundreds of colorful pavilions were already erected around it. Most of the entourage made their way directly there to set up camp, but Walton continued to the southern gates of Highgarden with lords Symon and Ilyn and their wives and children. From there the Gardener guards escorted them through the maze and the gardens all the way to the inner gates. There they were welcomed by the castle's steward, who introduced himself as Malcolm Tyrell. He was an old and chubby man dressed in flamboyant green-and-gold silk attire, with an amiable face, reddish complexion, and thick hair and bushy beard as white as the stones of the castle.

"You may leave your personal belongings here, my lords, the servants shall take them to the guest quarters at the northern tower," Malcolm Tyrell told lords Symon and Ilyn, speaking with a polite tone and a posh accent. "Meanwhile, I would like to take you to meet King Greydon at the eastern gardens."

The Tyrell steward led them to a tiled courtyard, in the middle of it standing an over twenty feet tall limestone statue of a heroic Gardener king on horseback. Walton reckoned it was the legendary Garth the Goldenhand, but he wasn't sure. From there they proceeded through a small peach grove between one of the towers and the inner wall to the large courtyard between the massive sept and the eastern gate. Through the gates they arrived to a beautiful garden between the inner and middle wall. Near the inner walls grew moonblooms, goldenrods, bellflowers and roses of many colors, and near the middle wall grew lemon and apple trees, as well as some finely trimmed decorative bushes.

In the middle of the garden was a grandiose fountain, from which four marble paved paths diverged. At the end of the path leading towards north from the fountain was an elevated terrace covered by a pergola on sturdy marble pillars, where the King was spending the afternoon with his eldest son and two of his noble guests. The steps to the terrace were guarded by two knights in shining white armors and green capes. The royal guards were the finest and most revered knights in all of the Reach, handpicked by the King himself to guard his life at all times. Walton knew that the current members of the royal guard were Ser Raymund Redwyne, Ser Manfryd Osgrey, Ser Jon Peake, Ser Randyll Ashford, Ser Benedict Bulwer, Ser Osbert Tyrell, Ser Arwood Roxton, Ser Lucas Graceford and Ser Alan Cockshaw, but he couldn't tell which of those nine these two were.

The guards let them pass without questions, though one of them did follow them up the stairs. And there the King was, sitting comfortably on a settee with a glass of white wine on his right hand. A man on his mid-fifties, his sturdy body exuded the strength of a warrior, even if there was some fat in it as well. His strong and wavy light brown hair was perhaps his most youthful feature, whereas his pointy beard had begun to grey from the tip and near the cheeks. On his broad face was a resting stern expression, with an attentive gaze in his green eyes. He was clad in a white-and-green attire as extravagant as was to be expected from a king, paired with unsparing gold and emerald jewelry.

Sitting next to his father, Prince Perceon looked much less impressive. He was lean, almost skinny, not looking at all like the warrior that his father was. His face was long and gaunt, his greasy brown hair was slicked back, on his chin was small patch of beard, and in his deep-set brown eyes seemed to constantly be a strained look of distrust. However, it was the man next to the prince that made Walton gulp audibly. Dressed in orange-and-black silks and velvets, Walton knew this man had to be Lord Lorimar Peake. Around the same age as King Greydon, Lord Lorimar was the father-in-law of Prince Perceon. He was a lean and balding man with a distinctively large nose and a thick brown mustache under it, and on his blue eyes was a perfectly calm and emotionless look. _That man is trying to destroy my family,_ Walton thought with anger, clenching his fists discreetly. His anger was only intensified as he noticed Lorimar exchanging a quick look with Lord Ilyn.

On the other side of the King sat another man, this one older than the rest. Lord Preston Osgrey was a proud man on his early seventies, Marshall of the Northmarch, Lord of Coldmoat and Standfast, and the father-in-law of King Greydon. Even in his old age he was still fit and stalwart, with an air of dignity about him. His head was a shining bald, around his thin lips was a dark grey goatee, and on his grey eyes was a focused and stern gaze.

Malcolm Tyrell bowed deeply before his king, before gesturing towards the guests and speaking up. "Your Grace, Lord Symon Tarly and Lord Ilyn Vyrwel just arrived with their families," he introduced them with a formal tone, before turning his gaze back towards them. "My lords and ladies, you are in presence of King Greydon Gardener, first of his name, King of the Reach and Lord of Highgarden."

In unison Symon and Ilyn kneeled, and the rest of them followed the example. "Welcome to Highgarden, my lords. You may stand up," Greydon spoke with a calm and authoritative tone on his deep voice.

"It is truly an honor to be here, Your Grace," Lord Ilyn said with a smarmy tone, and Walton thought he could see a hint of annoyance in the king's eyes. "We are grateful for the invitation, Your Grace," Symon added calmly, before turning his eyes to Prince Perceon. "And we wish to congratulate the prince for his thirtieth nameday," he said with a respectful bow towards Perceon, who responded with a stiff nod.

"Time flies faster and faster as the years go by," Greydon quipped with a dry chuckle. "And soon it'll be another winter, gods know how long it'll last. I figured we should at least have a proper tourney before that."

"An excellent idea, Your Grace," Ilyn complimented with a practiced smile on his face, which was not reciprocated by Greydon.

"Had any troubles with the Dornish lately?" Lord Preston changed the topic with a curious tone, shifting his gaze slowly from Ilyn to Symon.

"No, my lord," Symon responded with a relaxed tone. "Ever since their war with the Storm King they have rarely harassed Reachman lands."

"And have you heard that the Storm King is dead?" Greydon asked, unable to hide his satisfied smirk. As no one answered, the king continued himself. "I received a raven from the Citadel just a few days ago, informing me that Arlan Durrandon had recently died of some severe illness. Apparently the maester of Storm's End had found seven black and swollen tumors within his guts while embalming the corpse. Sounds like the gods found a way to punish that sinner."

"May he burn in seven hells," Lord Ilyn said brazenly, to which King Greydon reacted with a wolfish grin while Lord Osgrey seemed to disapprove. "Sinner or not, he was undeniably a remarkable man," Preston argued sternly. "He reshaped Westeros with his conquest of Riverlands more than any other man has in centuries."

"I doubt his achievement will last much longer," Lord Lorimar chimed in with a dry and passionless tone. "The river lords are famously quarrelsome even amongst themselves, they won't tolerate an outsider as their king for long."

"Be that as it may, I won't hold you for longer, my lords," Greydon said with a sigh. "Lord Tyrell, escort our guests to their quarters. And remember friends, you still have two days to get your names on the lists for the tourney."

"If I may ask, Your Grace, are you planning to partake the competition personally?" Symon asked casually, and Greydon nodded with a grin. "I'll fight in the melee," he revealed calmly.

"I'll see you on the field then," Symon replied with a respectful bow.

After the Tyrell steward had introduced them to their quarters, Walton and Ryam decided to go look around the tourney field. The sun was already setting, but the massive camp illuminated with torches and lanterns was still full of life. Nearest to the tourney field were the extravagant pavilions of the many noble knights who had arrived to present their houses. Among the banners flickering above the pavilions Walton spotted the golden tree of House Rowan, the white tower of House Hightower, the red apple of House Fossoway, the golden centaur of House Caswell, and many more.

After that came the carts and stalls of the many blacksmiths, saddlers, weavers, farmers, butchers and brewers who had come to sell their goods. Finally, furthest away from the tourney field was the sprawling camp of hedge knights, minstrels, jesters, washerwomen and all kinds of folk who had come to either enjoy the tourney or try to gain something from it.

As they walked through the camp, Walton noticed Ser Halmon Hunt drunkenly entering a tent with a buxom blond prostitute. "Whoever knighted that man made a mistake," Ryam commented with a grin.

"I'm pretty sure it was your father," Walton replied lightheartedly.

Continuing to explore the camp, they came across a place where some bulky and hairy man was arranging fist fights and taking bets. At the moment there was a brawl going on between a tall young man with black hair and an older and stockier redheaded man, and the people around them were cheering on whomever they had pledged their coin for.

Just as the redhead slammed the younger man on the ground, Walton heard a familiar voice calling his name behind him. He turned to see a handsome young knight on his early twenties, with short light brown hair and a thin mustache under his nose, and an affable gaze on his sea-green eyes. He was clad in a shining heavy plate armor with the merman of House Manderly painted on the chest, and a turquoise cape donned on his shoulders.

"Willam," Walton said with a slightly surprised tone, and a warm grin formed on his second cousin's face. Willam was a travelling knight who had taken part in several smaller tourneys around the kingdom, even winning one at Cuy two years ago. They engaged in a brief hug, after which Willam placed his right hand on Walton's shoulder. "So, how have you been, pal?" he asked calmly.

"Pretty good," Walton replied with a hesitant smirk. He would tell him about what he had heard about Lord Peake's plans later, but not here. "Did you come by yourself?"

"Aye, I was at Ashford when I heard about the tourney," Willam answered excitedly. "I doubt there will ever be an opportunity as good as this to win glory in my life, so I rode like madman here to make sure I'm early enough to put my name on the lists."

"You think you'll have a realistic chance against the knights of the royal guard?" Ryam joined the conversation with a curious tone, and Willam nodded confidently. "They are all great knights, but even the greatest knight can be defeated," he said calmly, but Ryam didn't look that convinced.

"I believe in you," Walton said, to which Willam chuckled warmly. "And I believe in you, cousin," he responded, tapping Walton on the shoulder. "You'll fight in the squire melee, right?"

"Yeah," Walton responded with an uncertain tone.

"Are you nervous about it?" Willam asked softly, and Walton nodded. "Well, perhaps I could help with that. Come to my pavilion, we'll have some mead and plan your strategy for the melee. You too, Ryam."

And that was exactly what they did long into the evening. As Walton finally made his way back towards his quarters he had a smile on his face, feeling much more confident and relaxed than he had in a long time. _I shall overcome and conquer whatever challenges lie ahead._


	9. Gwynesse II

**Gwynesse**

It was the fourth day after the night Gwynesse Goodbrother had spent with Prince Harmund Hoare. They had seen each other just briefly couple times after that, and if Gwynesse didn't know that the prince was busy planning the war with King Lancel and King Harmund, she would've suspected that he was purposefully avoiding her. Even as it was, there was the sneaking suspicion in her mind that Harmund regretted their night together.

Whatever the truth was, Gwynesse had done her best not to think about it too much. Instead, she had toured the Casterly Rock together with Princess Lorena. They had visited the ringfort on the top, the small godswood called the Stone Garden on the northeastern corner, the sept in the heart of the Rock illuminated by hundreds of candles, and many of the magnificent halls and courtyards sprinkled throughout the massive fortress of the Lannisters. Lorena had been eager to learn about the life on the Iron Isles, inquiring Gwynesse about their customs and traditions. Gwynesse on the other hand had asked Lorena about the great tourneys and fairs of the mainlanders that she had heard about.

She had quite enjoyed the company of the Lannister princess, and was especially fond of her unabashed and candid personality. Still it was at times remarkably apparent just how different of worlds they came from, causing both to not always understand what the other was talking about. Lorena would try to explain Gwynesse the significance of knighthood or why it was important for a noblewoman to learn music and poetry, whereas Gwynesse would find herself explaining the difference between rock wives and salt wives. It was also clear to Gwynesse that Princess Lorena downright despised many aspects of the Ironborn culture, even if she didn't say so explicitly.

Gwynesse had returned to her chambers after lunch to rest. After all, there was not much else for her to do before the feast that would be held at the great hall that evening. Prince Harmund was once again in the council room with his father, grandfather, uncle and cousin, and Princess Lorena was busy with designing her new gown with the tailor. Gwynesse knew that many of the ironborn guests had been going around Lannisport, visiting its many taverns and brothels, and she was tempted to join them. However, she knew she had to avoid that kind of behavior if she wanted to be seen as a prospective future wife of Prince Harmund. _Queens don't drink among the commoners._

Suddenly the door of Gwynesse's chambers was knocked on, and she opened it to see one of Queen Lelia's handmaidens standing there. Ursula Farwynd she was, a pale black-haired girl of fifteen years, and a granddaughter of Lord Urrek Farwynd – as was Gwynesse, since her mother was Urrek's daughter. That of course made Ursula her cousin, but in truth they were strangers to each other.

"Lady Gwynesse, Queen Lelia summons you to her chambers," the girl spoke with her thin and timid voice.

"The Queen wants to meet me now?" Gwynesse asked with a raised eyebrow, and Ursula nodded. "Yes, mylady. Though she did say that only if you're not in the middle of something important."

"Nothing more important than obeying the Queen, that's for sure," Gwynesse replied with a nervous chuckle. And so, Ursula led the way and she followed. Luckily Queen Lelia's chambers weren't that far away, being also on the southern side of the Rock, just few stories higher than Gwynesse's.

Entering the Queen's chambers, Gwynesse was almost overwhelmed by the lavish decoration. Everything from the tables to the canopy of the bed was ornamented with gold, crimson curtains made of silk hung by the windows, and a thick and soft carpet with intricately detailed patterns laid on the floor. However, the Queen herself was sitting outside on the balcony with a glass of wine, admiring the spectacular view of Lannisport under the afternoon sun.

In her mid-forties, Queen Lelia still retained much of the beauty she was known for. Her graceful figure, luscious golden hair and delicate facial features were all intact, even if the first small hints of aging had begun to emerge.

"Your Grace," Gwynesse greeted the Queen with a respectful curtsey, to which she responded with a small nod and a polite smile. "Lady Gwynesse, please take a seat," she said with a friendly tone. Quietly Gwynesse sat down next to Queen Lelia, and Ursula poured wine for her before stepping back.

"I always loved sitting here as a child, just watching and listening to the city from afar," the Queen said with a placid tone, her bright green eyes fixed on the city below them. "If you're quiet enough, you can hear the bells of the septs, the yells of the merchants selling their goods on the markets, even the strikes of hooves and creaking of the cartwheels against the cobbled streets. Children are often ungrateful of what they have, and I was no exception. Bored of all the luxuries that came with being the king's daughter, I came here to dream I was just an ordinary girl on the streets of Lannisport."

Gwynesse took a sip of her wine and looked at the Queen curiously, wondering why she was telling her this. Her lips forming a small smile, Lelia turned her gaze to Gwynesse now. "However, as I matured I learned to accept my role in this world, even embrace it. I was the Princess of Casterly Rock, my role was to be looked up on with awe by the common folk of those streets. And when I married Harmund and sailed with him to Iron Islands I had once again a new role to learn and embrace. I would be the foreign Queen, representing the beauty and glory of the culture that so many of your kind want to look down on."

"It must have been hard, being surrounded by people who… aren't fond of what you represent to them," Gwynesse said tensely. "Your bravery is commendable, Your Grace."

Queen Lelia chuckled warmly at Gwynesse's words. "Thank you, darling. Although I must say I never felt I was in danger, thanks to Harmund," she said, genuine affection in her words. Gwynesse nodded, feeling more and more confused as to why the Queen had summoned her. As if reading her mind, Lelia spoke up. "You must be wondering why I wanted to discuss with you in private like this," she said smoothly, and once again Gwynesse nodded. "Well, I have noticed your… growing connection with my son," Lelia explained calmly.

Gwynesse turned her gaze down embarrassedly, unsure how to respond. She opened her mouth to say something but was immediately cut off by the Queen. "It's alright, dear," she assured gently. "I love my first son more than anything in this world, and if he is happy with you I would never take that away from him."

"But… I wouldn't be your first choice, right?" Gwynesse asked quietly, her tone slightly sour. Lelia nodded. "I have nothing against you, sweet girl," she said softly, and Gwynesse couldn't tell whether she was being sincere or not. "I would simply prefer if Prince Harmund were to marry a daughter of a Westerman lord, a girl blessed in the light of the Seven. This alliance between our kingdoms is based on my marriage with King Harmund, but it might not be enough to secure it for the future generations."

"I understand, Your Grace," Gwynesse said stiffly, taking in a deep breath before continuing. "However, perhaps marrying a daughter of the Iron Isles would have the benefit of reassuring the Ironborn lords that their king is still one of their own. It would inspire loyalty."

Lelia flashed Gwynesse a cold smile, no doubt meant as a friendly gesture but coming off as almost judgmental. "You are smart and good-hearted, I can tell that," she said with a small sigh. "However, my son's reign over the Iron Isles will mark progression and letting go of its savage old traditions, no matter the cost. If you wish to be the Queen that rules beside him, that is something you must understand and embrace."

"I can do that, Your Grace," Gwynesse promised with a subtle gulp. She felt somewhat conflicted about Queen Lelia's vision for the future of the Iron Isles but arguing against it here and now would do no good. However, if she actually were to marry Harmund and rule by his side, then she could influence him to see the value of the traditions that his mother was so eager to destroy.

"I'm happy to hear that," Lelia said softly, though Gwynesse could spot the hint of doubt in her words. "Rest assured, I have no plans of turning my son against you, Lady Gwynesse. If he chooses you, I will respect his choice."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Gwynesse said thinly, forcing a smile on her face.

Gwynesse left the meeting with a conflicted feeling. On one hand Queen Lelia had at least seemingly accepted her, but she had to wonder if her true intention had been to make Gwynesse reconsider her advances with the prince. Whatever the truth was, Gwynesse found herself deciding that she would not give up on courting Prince Harmund. Part of her liked to think she was doing it because it was what her father expected of her, but there was no denying that she had also grown very fond of Harmund during their time together on this journey.

The feast that evening was as spectacular as was to be expected, with musicians, wine and tables decked with tasty foods. The occasion begun with King Lancel announcing to the court of Casterly Rock his plan to invade the Reach. "The banners have been called," the Lannister king spoke with devotion and zeal in his words. "While our Ironborn allies sail together with the Farman fleet towards Mander, my son shall lead the might of the Rock on the northern Reach. The Reach shall be squashed between our jaws, and its weak and soft men shall cower in fear as they hear our roar!"

The people in the hall cheered and applauded for their king, but Gwynesse thought she could spot doubt in many of their eyes. War against the Reach was not something to be taken lightly, there was a history of long and brutal wars between the Lannisters and Gardeners after all, and rarely ever had anything meaningful been achieved in those wars. Then again, the alliance with the Ironborn was an asset no King of the Rock before had possessed.

Gwynesse sat on the high table next to Lorena and her mother Alysanne. It was clear Lorena had inherited most of her looks from Prince Tymond, because Alysanne had much sharper facial features than her daughter, and instead of the typical golden blond of the Lannisters her hair was dark brown.

"Growing up in Banefort, I remember my father's men saying that on the Iron Isles even women are raised as warriors," Alysanne spoke with an intrigued tone on her voice, scanning Gwynesse with her green eyes. "I'm curious, mylady, is there any truth to that?"

"Well, yes… and no," Gwynesse responded with a tense chuckle. "Many noble lords train their daughters to fight so they can protect themselves, but women rarely take part in raiding parties. In fact, most captains would never accept a woman on their crew."

"And did your father train you?" Alysanne asked softly.

"Aye, together with my brothers," Gwynesse answered with a smile, many pleasant memories surfacing in her mind. She had never been an outstandingly talented fighter, but sparring with her brothers had always been among her favorite pastimes as a young girl. "My mother was never that fond of it though, saying I should concentrate more on literature. 'There are thousands of Ironborn who can wield a sword, but only few that can read or write a letter', she always told me."

"Sounds like a wise woman," Alysanne commented with a smirk. "I'd love to meet her, this lady…"

"Lady Amyra, daughter of Lord Farwynd," Gwynesse clarified politely. "And I did take some of her advice. Haven't read a single book, but I can read a letter if need be."

"Ah, I have a couple books you should definitely read," Lorena said enthusiastically, and Gwynesse raised her eyebrow. "I don't think I'll have enough time before heading back home," she pointed out with an amused tone.

"It doesn't matter, you can borrow them," the Lannister princess insisted. "And hey, that way I can be sure you'll come visit again in the future," she added with a playful tone.

"I guess you're right," Gwynesse admitted with a chuckle. "Wouldn't want to steal from the Princess of Casterly Rock after all."

The feast went on for another hour or so, after which people began to slowly make their way out, Prince Tymond and Princess Alysanne being among the first ones to leave. Prince Harmund walked next to Gwynesse and stopped for a moment. "Meet me at the Stone Garden," he whispered, and continued walking without waiting for her response.

Gwynesse looked on quietly as the prince walked out of the hall, glancing towards her quickly at the door before exiting.

"Lucky girl," Lorena said with a teasing tone, to which Gwynesse chuckled dryly. "Maybe, or maybe I'm just way over my head," she responded earnestly. "Courting a Hoare prince… I don't know if I should be happy or concerned for myself."

"Don't worry about it too much, dear. Harmund is a good man," Lorena said with an encouraging tone. "Now, don't keep him waiting too long."

With a sigh Gwynesse stood up and made her way out of the hall. Silently she walked through a long corridor and a small hall, arriving to the terrace that overlooked the small godswood. The winding paved path leading to the heart tree was illuminated by half-a-dozen lanterns, and by the weirwood itself stood Prince Harmund.

Gwynesse approached him quietly, and he looked at her with a slightly nervous gaze in his dark eyes. "My prince," she greeted him with a shy smile, which he reciprocated. "Gwyn," he said calmly. "I'm sorry for not having been able to talk with you these past few days."

"No need to apologize," Gwynesse replied softly. "You've been busy planning the war, I understand."

"Yeah, and… I needed some time to think, about us," Harmund said with a subtle gulp. "You see, I won't be sailing with my father and the Ironborn fleet. Instead, I'll march together with Prince Tymond and the Lannister army, and…"

"And what?" Gwynesse asked, gently grabbing Harmund's left hand. "And I wanted to ask if you'd join me," the prince concluded, now looking her to the eyes.

"You… want me to march to war with you?" Gwynesse asked with a surprised tone, and Harmund nodded. "It's your choice of course," he quickly assured. "But like I said, I've been thinking about us, and I don't want this war to separate us now."

Gwynesse narrowed her eyes and studied Harmund's face, wondering why he was saying this. She doubted it was as simple as he was claiming, they may have grown close during this journey, but so close that Harmund couldn't separate from her even to fight a war? Gwynesse found it unlikely. _Perhaps he is worried that I'm carrying his child,_ she realized. It made sense, Harmund wouldn't want to risk her giving birth to his bastard while being preoccupied by the war. _But if I am carrying his child, would he want to marry me to make the child legitimate, or just make sure the child is never born in the first place?_

"I'll come with you," Gwynesse finally said, her tone calm and collected. She trusted that she knew Harmund well enough to know he wouldn't harm her. And if anything, going with him would give her more time to win the prince's heart, whether she was carrying his child or not.

Harmund kissed her quickly on the lips, a wide smile forming on his face as they separated. "Thank you, Gwyn," he said with a relieved tone. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

"Anything for my prince," Gwynesse chirped in response. "Even war."


	10. Hagon II

**Hagon**

The Shrike didn't remain in Hoare Castle for long after baptizing Prince Hagon, leaving shortly before nightfall. From the window of his chambers Hagon watched the old priest walking down the road away from the castle, slowly disappearing into the distance as the sun set and night took over. He wondered where the Shrike would go, and who would he sing his songs about what had happened in Hoare Castle that day. Whoever he would tell, Hagon knew his family would hear of this once they would return from their visit to Casterly Rock, and he already dreaded their reaction. He knew his father had been baptized by a drowned man himself and had never disowned his faith to the Drowned God despite also taking up the faith of the Seven. It had been the wish of Lelia Lannister to bring up Hagon and his brother by the teachings and blessings of the septons of Seven instead of those of the drowned men. _I have a right to choose my own beliefs,_ Hagon thought defiantly, already knowing his choice would be looked down upon by his mother and brother.

That night Hagon didn't sleep well, pestered by nightmares of the storming sea swallowing him and drowning him into the deep darkness under the waves. There he saw his brother, naked and bleeding from a thousand cuts. Harmund tried to plead for mercy, but Hagon could only watch in silence as his brother bled to death.

Next day Hagon decided to go for a ride with his friend Quenton Farwynd. They raced the rugged road along the coast towards south, crisp wind blowing from the sea to their left. They made their way past small fishing villages and crumbling watchtowers, and after a couple of hours they came across a port town sitting on a small natural harbor. Its timber walls were covered in moss and seemed to generally have been in disrepair for a while. A single Hoare banner flickered above the open gates, signifying the town's allegiance to the royal house. By the docks were anchored three longships of the local raiders. It was said that every captain was a king aboard their own ship, but technically the ships were owned by whomever their captains held allegiance to, which in case of these three ships was King Harmund.

Hagon and Quenton left their horses to be tended to at the stables, before heading to the only tavern in this small town. The room was damp and dimly lit, smoke lingered in the air, and around the tables sat gruff and hardened men clad in stained and ragged clothing. Hagon and Quenton in their fine velvets and jewelry certainly stood out, and the prince did notice many gazes directed at them as they walked to an empty table. "Hey missy, bring us some ale, will you? And something to eat as well!" Quenton yelled lightheartedly at the barmaid, who nodded and hurried behind her counter.

"Gods, she is fine looking," Quenton said with a lustful look in his eyes, and Hagon glanced indifferently at the girl. Fair-haired and buxom, the barmaid was indeed quite pretty in a common sort of way. In her green eyes was a timid look as she approached them, carrying two mugs of ale and two bowls of soup.

"Here's your ale and food, m'lords," the girl spoke as she placed the mugs and bowls on the table. Smoothly Quenton grabbed her right hand and gently kissed it. "Thank you, dear," he said with a wink. "We'll let you know when to bring more." Blushing, the girl rushed back behind her counter.

"A shy one… I kinda like it," Quenton said with a sly grin, and Hagon rolled his eyes as he took the first gulp of the ale. It wasn't the worst he had ever tasted, but certainly not as goods as the ale brewed in Hoare Castle. "You need to get yourself a wife," Hagon said dryly, to which his friend reacted with an amused chuckle.

"Sounds boring," Quenton said nonchalantly, sipping the ale. "Anyway, perhaps now that you've got some ale in your belly you'd feel comfortable talking about yesterday."

"What is there to talk?" Hagon asked bluntly, which made Quenton raise an eyebrow. "What is there to talk?" he repeated with a sarcastic tone. "You were baptized by the bloody Shrike, a priest notorious for preaching against your father's rule over the Iron Isles. I thought maybe you'd like to explain what exactly made you think it was a smart idea? I mean, the bastard could've killed you and simply claim it was the doing of the Drowned God."

"He is a priest, not a murderer," Hagon responded with a sigh, to which Quenton reacted with a mocking laugh. "Are you really that naïve, prince?" he asked with a cheeky grin on his face. "I guess it's your Lannister side showing."

"Well, he didn't kill me, did he?" Hagon hissed with an irritated tone, and Quenton shook his head. "No, he didn't. Which makes me think he has another use in mind for you. Would I be correct?"

"What's it to you?" Hagon asked frustratedly, proceeding to gulp down the remaining soup in his bowl.

"I'm your friend, Hagon," Quenton answered, his tone a bit more serious now. "If you're planning something, I'd like to know. I've got your back, brother, you know it."

Hagon took in a deep breath and glanced around him to make sure no one was listening. "Once my father dies, hopefully years from now, I will be the one to take the Seastone Chair," he said quietly, seeing the smile on his friend's face slowly vanishing. "Shrike will support my claim, assuming he is still around when the time comes."

"Your claim," Quenton said quietly, turning his gaze down for a moment. "You are the second son, what claim could you possibly have?"

"No godless man may sit the Seastone Chair, and my brother's gods are false," Hagon replied coldly, hiding his uncertainty behind a steely glare.

"But to slay one's own kin is the greatest sin of all," Quenton argued, and Hagon gave him an agreeing nod. "I have no intentions of killing my brother," he clarified calmly. "I will exile him and our mother, that is all."

"Well, that will surely end the alliance we have with the Lannisters," Quenton stated, his tone unrevealing of his feelings. "Better that than to turn into something we are not," Hagon responded sharply. "We are ironborn, even if my brother would like to deny that."

"What is dead may never die," Quenton mouthed with a stifled chuckle, gulping down the rest of his ale. "Hey barmaid, bring us another round, will ya?" he yelled, the grin returning to his face. As the girl arrived with two more mugs of ale, Quenton put his arm around her. "Tell me, pretty, what's your name?"

"Frya, m'lord," the girl answered quietly.

"Frya, huh? Well I'm Quenton Farwynd," Quenton responded smoothly, his arm still around the barmaid. "The most skilled archer on Great Wyk, if I say so myself. And that's not all I'm good at."

"I'm sorry m'lord Farwynd, but I should get back to my work," Frya mumbled weakly, and with a disappointed look on his eyes Quenton removed his arm. "Of course," he said with a forced smirk on his face. "Just be ready to bring us more when we're done with these," he added, raising his mug. With a shy nod the barmaid turned around and walked off.

Before Hagon and Quenton could resume their earlier conversation, they noticed a tall and haggard man approaching their table. Clad in leather and fur, the man's thin brown hair was as greasy and unkempt as his frizzy beard, and if Hagon had to guess he'd say the man was on his mid to late forties. He grabbed a wooden stool and sat down at the head of the table, between Quenton and Hagon.

"Afternoon, m'lords," he greeted them, briefly baring his rotting line of teeth. "I reckon you're from Hoare Castle, aye?"

"Aye," Hagon responded sternly. "I'm Prince Hagon Hoare, second son of King Harmund the Haggler. This here is my friend, Quenton of House Farwynd."

"Captain Rogyn Redaxe," the man introduced himself in return, extending his hand for Hagon. With a nod the prince shook the captain's hand, his fingers aching slightly under the man's tight grip. "Now, I just noticed your friend here mingling with Frya," Rogyn continued quietly, a threatening glare in his blue eyes. "She's a pretty girl, so I understand. I brought her from Cape of Eagles a year back, she's my fourth wife."

"My apologies, captain," Hagon said tensely, his hand still in Rogyn's grip. "I'm sure my friend was unaware that the girl was taken," he added, giving a meaningful glare at Quenton. Rogyn reacted with a cold chuckle, now letting go of Hagon's hand. "Thing is, you can have her," the reaver said with a sharp smirk on his face. "But only if you pay the correct price," he added, tapping lightly at the axe hanging from his belt.

A moment of tense silence followed Rogyn's words, and to his shock Hagon noticed from Quenton's expression that he was seriously considering challenging this man to a fight to take his wife. However, as his friend hesitated, Hagon took the chance to speak up. "We'll just drink these and leave," he stated sternly, looking at this friend with narrowed eyes.

"That right?" Rogyn asked calmly from Quenton, who after a moment of consideration gave him a wordless nod. And so, with a satisfied grin Rogyn Redaxe stood up. "'Twas pleasure meeting you, m'lords," he said with a nod before walking back to his own table at the other end of the room.

"And you were lecturing me for being reckless," Hagon said dryly, shaking his head slightly. "Why would you even consider challenging a hardened raider to a fight, for some lowborn wench?"

"I pity the girl," Quenton responded with a sigh. "She can't be happy with a man like that. Had I killed him and taken her to Sealskin Point, I'm sure she would've seen me as a hero."

"I'm sure she would've seen you as a fool when that bastard would've embedded his axe into your skull," Hagon said with a slightly amused tone, and Quenton rolled his eyes. He gulped down his ale and thumped the empty mug on the table. "Let's just fucking go."

There was little conversation between them as they rode back to Hoare Castle, and when they arrived the sun was already setting. After taking their horses to the stables, Hagon and Quenton were approached on the courtyard by Jason Codd.

"My prince, I've been waiting for you," the captain of the guards spoke with a slightly impatient tone. "What is it, Jason?" Hagon asked bluntly, while his friend continued walking towards the keep.

"Maester Dorrick has requested to meet with you as soon as possible," Jason explained. "A raven from Casterly Rock, apparently. Should I fetch him to your quarters?"

"No need to bother, I'll go to his," Hagon replied lazily, and begun to make his way towards the western tower. It was one of the smaller towers of the castle, being merely four stories tall. Its top two stories contained the ravenry and the maester's quarters, which Prince Hagon entered without knocking, finding the old man sitting behind his desk and writing something.

"My prince", Maester Dorrick spoke with his frail voice as he noticed Hagon. Dorrick was a thin and weak old man on his early seventies, having been sent to Hoare Castle from the Citadel when Hagon was just a toddler. He had tutored both Hagon and his brother with reading and writing, as well as teaching them history, mathematics and many other subjects ranging from the marking of seasons to the workings of human body. Harmund had always been the more eager student of the two brothers, and Dorrick's clear bias against the Ironborn culture had made Hagon see the old man somewhat unfavorably.

"You wanted to meet," Hagon said sternly, and Dorrick nodded, pulling a parchment scroll from his sleeve. "Your father has sent a raven from Casterly Rock," he said, handing the scroll to Hagon.

Hagon read through the message quickly, expecting some mundane update regarding when they would be returning home, but what he saw instead surprised him. He read it again, just to make sure he hadn't misunderstood what he read.

"A war against the Reach," he muttered quietly, lowering the scroll on the table with an astonished expression on his face.

"Together with the Lannisters," Dorrick concluded calmly, grabbing the scroll from the table. "It seems your father will be gathering his fleet to Orkwatch, the old seat of House Hoare. As I'm sure you noticed, your father has tasked you with garrisoning…"

"I won't stay," Hagon cut the maester off, a wide smirk forming on his face. "I will sail to war with my fellow Ironborn," he said with a decisiveness that left no room for arguments. There was no way he would remain here in Hoare Castle, no way he would turn down this opportunity.

 _This must be fate_ , Hagon thought excitedly. Yesterday he had pledged his service to the Drowned God, and today his prayers had been answered. This war would be his chance to prove himself in the eyes of gods and men.


	11. Erich II

**Erich**

Erich laid quietly on the bunk of the cabin given to him on the Mighty Griffin, one of the two galleys that had set sail from Griffin's Roost last morning. It was a small and dark room below the upper deck, right next to the quarters of the oarsmen. Perhaps Lord Robert had thought that Erich would feel humiliated, but in honesty it was better than the average bed he had had during these past few years living as a travelling knight.

It was early morning, or so Erich deduced from the sounds of the oarsmen getting back to work on the other side of the door. With a groan he pulled himself up from the bed, leaning on the wall as he felt the ship swaying on the waves of Shipbreaker Bay. He dressed up and had a small breakfast, after which he headed to the upper deck.

Sun was shining from a clear sky and the wind was sharp, blowing Erich's black hair back. He clenched tightly to his wool cape to stay warm. Of course, it was nothing compared to the autumn and winter storms, but after a long and warm summer even a snappy wind like this had a bite to it. Had Trystane and Cedrik decided to travel aboard the ship instead of continuing on horseback Erich would've probably played dice with them to pass the time, but alas he had to come up with something else.

The first person Erich came across on the upper deck was his half-brother Rupert. Fifteen years of age, the boy already looked much like his father, with similar angular features, red hair and small green eyes.

"Erich," Rupert greeted him awkwardly, avoiding eye-contact. The boy didn't share his father's animosity towards Erich, but there certainly was no love between them either. "Rupert," Erich replied with a stilted tone.

"Um, I think Colin wanted to see you," Rupert said, nodding towards the prow of the ship where Colin Mertyns was standing together with his sister Leyla. They were both on their early twenties, Colin a couple years older than his sister. Erich had seen them briefly at Griffin's Roost before they set sail, but before that he had never met them. "Did he say why?" he asked calmly.

"He said something about you having fought beside King Arlan," Rupert answered with a sigh. "I think I'll go inside," the boy muttered, moving past Erich to the doors that led to the quarters at the stern of the ship. Quietly Erich walked to the prow of the ship, where the Mertyns siblings were leaning on the railing and looking at the other Connington galley a few hundred yards ahead of them.

"Good morning," Erich said with a relaxed tone, and they both shifted their attention to him. "Good morning, ser," Colin responded with a friendly smirk on his face. The heir of Mistwood was dressed in a dark green velvet doublet with slashed sleeves, and a grey cloak held up by a silver buckle. He had soft and amicable facial features, a dark brown hair that he had tied to a ponytail, thin mustache and a small patch of beard on his chin. Leyla Mertyns shared her brother's soft features and blue eyes, but her hair was a much lighter shade of brown. She was dressed in a high collared green wool dress, paired with a black cloak lined with grey fur.

"It's a shame we've lost such a great king," Erich spoke with a doleful tone, and Colin's smirk was immediately replaced with a look of sympathy. "Aye, I only had the honor to meet his grace once, years ago, but he struck me as a good man," he said with a subtle gulp. "I'm… sure this is tough for you, with Arlan being your grandfather and…"

"What my brother is trying to say is that we'd like to give our condolences," Leyla cut off Colin with a soft and empathic tone.

"It's alright," Erich responded, managing to force a thin smile on his face. "I always had great respect for my grandfather, but I didn't know him that well either," he explained.

"Aye, he was the greatest Storm King since… well, a long time, that much is clear," Colin said with a sigh, and Erich nodded in agreement. "Which brings to my mind, I've heard you fought beside him in Dorne," Colin continued, while his sister rolled her eyes.

"Aye, I did," Erich confirmed nonchalantly. "Who told you about this?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, we were visiting Stonehelm a while ago, and Lord Domeric shared a couple war stories with us," Colin answered with a slightly embarrassed chuckle. "You were in a few of them."

Domeric Swann had indeed marched with them six years ago. He was a fierce and courageous warrior, one that Erich had nothing but respect for. After the war Domeric had offered Erich a place in his service at Stonehelm, but back then he hadn't been ready to settle down. Despite that, Erich had lent his sword for Lord Swann many a time over the years. "Aye, Domeric is quite the storyteller," he said softly. "I'm sure he made it all sound very glorious."

"Well, yes, but he did also describe the chaos and terror of the battlefield," Colin responded calmly. "As well as the feeling of disappointment among the troops when you were forced to retreat from the Stone Way."

"Mm, that was a sad day indeed," Erich answered with a detached tone. He did remember the disappointment, yes, but he also remembered feeling relieved. It had been a long and hard campaign with severe losses, and King Arlan had made the right choice in retreating after their last defeat.

"That aside, what was he like?" Colin inquired. "King Arlan, I mean. After all, you spent months with him, I'm sure you knew him better than most of us."

"He was a very charismatic man," Erich started hesitantly, turning his gaze towards the sea.

"Well, that much I deduced myself," Colin commented with a chuckle. "I want to know what he was like under the surface of being the Storm King. Did he have a sense of humor? How about his fears, hopes and dreams?"

"You're being nosy, brother," Leyla weighed in with a frustrated tone, but Erich shook his head. "No, it's fine, I just… Arlan rarely revealed the person underneath his regal surface," he explained calmly. "Not to the likes of me at least, I'm sure my mother would be better suited to answer your questions."

"I'm sorry," Colin said with an apologetic tone. "Your family is going through a lot right now, I should try to be a bit more sensitive."

 _I have no family,_ Erich was tempted to say, but instead he just gave an understanding nod to Colin. They chatted for a while longer, talking about the past summer and the coming winter.

As the sun climbed higher on the blue sky, Erich decided to go see his mother. Princess Marleina had remained in her cabin ever since they set sail, and Erich was starting to feel concerned for her. He knocked on her door, and after a moment Marleina opened it. She had been crying, it was plain to see, and her black hair was messy and uncombed. "Morning Erich," she muttered weakly.

"It's almost noon," he responded sternly, to which she simply sighed tiredly. Erich stepped inside the cabin, and they sat around a small table. "I wanted to check that you're fine," he said calmly.

"I'm fine, it's just… hard going back, knowing father won't be there to welcome me home," Marleina spoke with a depressed tone.

"So, do you know how he died?" Erich asked gently after a moment of silence. "I mean, I know he was getting old, but six years ago he was still full of life."

"I last visited Storm's End over a year ago, and he was already getting weaker," Marleina told, a saddened expression on her face. "I didn't think it was anything serious back then, just the natural effect of aging. But from what I've heard, he was bedridden and in terrible pain for several weeks before finally passing away."

"A painful death," Erich said with a sigh, and his mother nodded. "I'm sure he fought it like hell," she said with an emotional tone, tears welling up in her eyes. "He didn't deserve to die like that, slowly and painfully."

"He's in peace now," Erich softly consoled her. "And I'm sure he'd want us to be strong now, to keep our chins up and move forward."

"I know," Marleina responded, taking in a deep breath and wiping off her tears. "And that's what we'll do. We'll have a new life in Strom's End, both of us."

"Aye, let's hope so," Erich replied calmly.

A couple of hours after the noon they finally reached their destination. As the waters below Storm's End were shallow and hazardous, the nearest harbor was that of a village almost a mile to the west from the castle. Half a dozen ships were anchored there already, and among their sails Erich spotted the colors of houses Tarth, Estermont and Wylde.

At the shore they were welcomed by the villagers, who were eagerly offering them a ride to the castle with their horse carts. Erich climbed on the same cart with Colin, Leyla and their parents – Lord Lomas Mertyns and Lady Carolei. Lomas was a stout and broad-shouldered man with a pudgy face, dark brown hair and a thick mustache, and Carolei was a kindly looking woman with round features and a chestnut hair that was tied to an extravagant bun.

"So, what news from the Marches?" Lord Lomas asked from Erich as the cart climbed the winding and bumpy road up towards the castle.

"It's the same as it has been ever since the war," Erich responded with a sigh. "Dornish raiders are a frequent nuisance everywhere between the Nightsong and Gallowsgrey."

"Figured as much," Lomas said dryly. "The fuckers have grown bold under the rule of their foreign whore."

"Lomas," Carolei said with a berating tone, but the Mertyns lord just chuckled. "What?" he asked with an amused tone. "I'm just saying it how it is. Princess Nymeria is a foreigner, and her current husband is the third one she's spread her legs for."

"I wouldn't say that makes her a whore, that's rather insulting," Colin argued calmly, to which his father rolled his eyes. "She's a foreign witch, and our enemy," he insisted sternly. "There's no insult grave enough for her."

Soon the curtain walls of Storm's End could be seen ahead, and everyone shifted their attention towards the ancient seat of the Storm Kings. It was a truly magnificent sight, with thick grey walls sturdy enough to withstand the fury of gods, and a single colossal tower rising above them, looking from a distance like a massive spiked fist thrusted towards the sky.

Above the gates, black banners hung side by side with the golden ones of House Durrandon in mourning of the King. The lords gave a couple silvers for the villagers before making their way in through the arched gateway. The guardsmen led them to the spacious inner courtyard, which had a large well in the middle. Immediately to the left were large stables and two-story barracks, and the kennels were to the right. Closer to the main keep were the kitchens and the forge, and to the left of the main doors was the small sept and the entrance to the godswood.

They were approached by a tall and slender man on his early to mid-thirties with short brown hair and a twirled mustache. He was dressed in a black velvet with white stripes and puffed sleeves. "Welcome to Storm's End, noble guests," he greeted them with a deep bow. "I am Clarence Penrose, the royal steward," he introduced himself calmly.

"I hope we're not late," Lord Robert spoke sternly.

"You aren't," Clarence Penrose confirmed with a thin smile. "King Arlan shall be buried in the crypts in three days. For now, his body rests beside the heart tree of the godswood. If you wish, you may pray and light candles for the Seven in the sept before giving your final farewells for his grace."

While the rest of the entourage made their way into the sept, Erich and Marleina went straight to the godswood. The small curving path led them past the brushes and trees to a small clearing, in the middle of which stood the bone white heart tree with leaves red like blood. Under the weirwood's solemn face King Arlan's embalmed body laid on a wooden table, and beside it stood a young black-haired woman, crying as she clung onto the dead king's hand.

"Princess Arya," Marleina spoke with a compassionate tone as they approached her, and the young woman raised her gaze with a slightly startled look on her beautiful blue eyes. "Marleina," she responded weakly.

Princess Arya Durrandon was eighteen years old, and the only child King Arlan had had with his second wide, Queen Shana of House Blackwood. Prince Ormund and Princess Marleina had been birthed by Arlan's first wife, the late Queen Annara of Tarth.

Hastily Arya wiped the tears from her delicate face. "I should go," she muttered, and hurried away without waiting for a response from Marleina, who sighed as she watched her half-sister leave.

Silently they walked next to Arlan's corpse. The mighty Storm King was clad in gold and black silks, and on his head was a silver crown with beautifully crafted antlers. However, it was plain to see that Arlan's last year in this world had taken a toll on him, as his formerly handsome face was gaunt and weary, and his majestic black hair and beard had turned grey.

"This must be so hard for her," Marleina said with a soft and sympathetic tone. "Losing a father at such a young age."

"Tell me about it," Erich muttered dryly, and his mother gave him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"It's alright mother," Erich cut her off calmly, eyeing the carved face of the godswood. "We shouldn't quarrel in presence of the gods."

"Or the dead," Marleina added with a small sigh, lowering her hand atop her father's. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath.

"Father, you were always there for me, and now it has come time for me to say goodbye to you," Marleina started softly. "I may not have always been worthy of your love and protection, but you gave it to me all the same. You were a great and beloved king, and the history will remember you as a conqueror, but I know that you were more than that. You were a loving father, caring husband, and a loyal friend. While others may have seen in you a warrior or a commander, I knew that beneath all that you were someone who cared deeply about those you loved." Few tears streamed down Marleina's cheeks as she stepped away from Arlan.

Silence lingered in the godswood for a moment, with only the leaves quivering in the soft wind. Then Erich stepped next to Arlan's body. His eyes scanned the fallen king from head to toes, as he tried to come up with something to say. "I… wish I had known you better, grandfather," he started quietly, gulping softly as he wondered whether Arlan could hear his words from wherever he was now. "You gave me an opportunity when you let me join your army, and I wanted to thank you for that. You didn't judge me for my bastardy but gave me a fair chance to prove myself. This whole kingdom mourns for you, and we can only hope that those who come after you will be worthy of the legacy you've left them. If they rule half as good as you did, we should be fine."

Erich turned his gaze to meet that of his mother's, who gave him a soft smile, which he reciprocated.

Erich was given nice and comfortable chambers on the main keep, with a window towards the Shipbreaker Bay. As the setting sun painted the waters in gold, he admired the nearly eight feet thick curtain wall that had defied the storms for thousands of years without yielding. It was said that ancient spells were woven into the wall to make it stronger, but Erich figured that meticulous stonework was the real explanation.

Suddenly the door was knocked on, shifting Erich attention away from his window. Quietly he walked to the door and opened it, seeing Clarence Penrose there. The man gave him a deep bow. "Ser Erich, Prince Ormund has summoned you to his office," he spoke with a formal tone.

"Now?" Erich asked with a surprised tone, and Clarence nodded. "Yes, ser. He is waiting for you, together with your mother," he explained.

 _Makes sense_ , Erich thought. Marleina had promised to persuade her brother to take Erich into his service. _I guess this is my chance_.

Quietly Erich followed the steward few stories down, until they reached a large oaken door with a crowned stag carved to it. Clarence knocked the door lightly, before proceeding to open it. He stepped inside, and Erich followed.

The room was large and airy, with a window towards the courtyard. The stony walls were decorated with swords, spears and shields, and on the wall next to the door was painted the map of Westeros. Marleina sat on a settee close to the table, a glass of wine on her hand. Her brother, Prince Ormund Durrandon, sat behind his desk, studying Erich with his blue eyes as he entered. Ormund had much of his father in his looks, with thick black hair and full beard, as well as the sharp but handsome facial features. However, his eyes lacked some of the warmth that Erich remembered from Arlan.

"Ser Erich Storm," Ormund spoke with a calm and friendly tone, his lips forming a thin smile. "The bastard of Griffin's Roost."

Erich bowed deeply to the prince, before speaking up. "Yes, my prince, I am Erich Storm. Though Griffin's Roost has not been my home for a long time."

"Maybe so, but it will always be a part of you," Ormund responded smoothly. "None of us can decide where we come from, and only few can truly decide where they end up."

"I acknowledge my past, and my… heritage," Erich said quietly, glancing at his mother who had so far remained silent. "However, I fought beside your father once, and I'm willing to do the same for you if you accept my service."

"We can discuss that," Ormund said calmly, slowly shifting his gaze to Marleina. "However, before that I wish to have a little chat with you, Erich. Alone."

"Brother," Marleina protested, but the prince cut her off by raising his hand. With a sigh she stood up laid down her glass on a nearby table, approaching Erich. "Don't worry, my son, he'll understand," she whispered, before making her way out of the room together with Clarence.

As the door closed, a tense silence took over the room. Erich gulped subtly, turning his eyes back to Prince Ormund.

"Erich Storm," the prince spoke up again, an intrigued look in his narrowed eyes. "A curious case indeed. Your birth caused quite a ruckus back then. A great shame to both the Durrandons and Conningtons, almost enough to cause a rift between our houses. Luckily for all of us Arlan was charming and diplomatic enough to appease both Robert and his father Davith. I'm sure my sister would claim it was her who protected you, but in truth you can thank our father for not having been thrown to the sea."

"As I said, I acknowledge and accept my past," Erich said, keeping his voice as calm as he could.

"Sadly, that does not make it disappear," Ormund said coldly, tapping his fingers on the desk. "You are still a sore spot when it comes to our relationship to House Connignton, which also happens to be one of our strongest vassals. Tell me, nephew, aside from making your mother happy, why should I risk offending Lord Robert by taking you into my service?"

Erich considered his answer for a moment. Then he looked his uncle to the eyes and spoke up. "My prince, perhaps you should ask the Marcher Lords about me," he said confidently. "Because I believe they would tell you about my loyalty and tireless efforts in protecting this kingdom. Some of them might even share with you stories about my valor on the battlefield, and my lack of mercy towards the enemies of House Durrandon."

"Yes, I have heard you have a good reputation amongst the Marcher Lords," Ormund replied with an agreeing nod.

"And they're important vassals as well, are they not?" Erich asked brazenly, and a sharp smirked formed on Ormund's face. "They are," he admitted calmly. The prince kept looking at Erich for a while longer with pondering eyes, before finally speaking up again. "Fine then, I shall accept your service. Now kneel, and pledge loyalty to me."

With relief Erich fell on his knee and bowed his head. "I offer my service to you, Prince Ormund of House Durrandon, son and heir of King Arlan the Third," he begun, his voice stilted and nervous. "I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

"I accept your service, Ser Erich Storm," Prince Ormund responded smoothly. "Now rise, as a knight of House Durrandon."


	12. Lyonel III

**Lyonel**

After almost a week of traveling through the Riverlands, Lyonel Bracken and his traveling companions finally saw Castlewood ahead of them. The stout and dun-colored stone castle stood atop a small hill, overlooking the Blackwater Rush to its west and the sparse woods all around it. It was a sunny and windless day, and Lyonel had to admit there was something alluring about this place. The distant sound of running water, the singing of birds, the earthy smell in the air, the beams of golden sunlight shining through the trees. It all made Lyonel feel relaxed and comfortable.

"No place like home," Lord Armond Harlton said softly, a rare expression of happiness on his face. And so, they rode in through the gates to the long quadrangular courtyard, in middle of which stood a dead white tree. The thing that immediately caught Lyonel's attention was the amount of greenery on the courtyard, with vines growing up the structures and several flowerbeds by almost every building. At the very end of the courtyard were large stone stairs leading up to the main keep itself.

After taking their horses to the stables, Lord Armond led Lyonel, Axel and Gared inside the keep. While not as large as the one in Raventree Hall, Castlewood's great hall was still quite an impressive sight with its tall stone pillars and a large pebble mosaic of a silver tree on green field on the floor.

Two people were standing near the dais as they entered, one clearly a maester and the other a woman of approximately the same age as Lord Armond. The maester was plump and balding, probably on his early fifties, and clad in clean dark robes. The lady on the other hand had a red hair that was starting to grey, and a strong face with high cheekbones and bright green eyes that matched her dress. She was quite tall for a woman, standing at almost six feet and towering the maester by several inches.

"My lord," the maester greeted Armond with a respectful bow as he noticed them approaching.

"Maester Bennis," Armond responded with his calm and dry tone, before turning towards the woman. "Carolei," he said softly, and briefly embraced her in a hug.

"Welcome back home, husband," the lady responded calmly. "I see you've brought guests with you," she then added, eyeing Lyonel and Axel.

"Yes, I suppose introductions are in order," Armond spoke, turning towards them. "This is Lyonel Bracken, sworn sword of Lord Brydan Blackwood. And his squire Axel Rivers, natural son of Ser Andar Tully."

"Welcome to Castlewood, both of you," the lady said warmly. "I am Lady Carolei Harlton, daughter of the late Lord Dafyn Cargyll."

"A pleasure to meet you, mylady," Lyonel spoke with a courteous bow, and Axel followed his example. "Sadly, my visit here is due to some… concerning news," Lyonel continued, and Lady Carolei nodded. "I know," she replied with a sigh. "We were just discussing a raven sent by my brother, Lord Desmond Cargyll. He informs that the Poor Fellows attacked one of the villages on his lands, killing half its people and driving the rest away. Apparently, the village's eldest had refused to pay tribute for the Faith Militant, and the following night a band of over fifty Poor Fellows charged on the village, burning down the houses and putting to sword many of those who tried to escape. My brother sent his men as soon as he learned of what had happened, but this band of Poor Fellows had already left by then."

"Those bloody cowards," Ser Gared muttered.

"Does Lord Desmond ask for my aid?" Lord Armond asked calmly, and Maester Bennis shook his head. "No, not directly, mylord," he said, handing the scroll to Armond. "However, he does suggest a meeting between you and him, to figure out the best course of action."

Armond eyed the message silently for a moment, before clearing his throat and speaking up again. "Should this situation get out of hand, I hope we can trust in the Storm King. However, for the mean time it would indeed make sense to organize with our allies," he spoke sternly. "Carolei, do you know where our son is?"

"Elbert is on a patrol with a couple dozen troops," Carolei answered to her husband, a slightly concerned expression on her face. "He has been doing it a lot since you left."

"Good, our people ought to be aware that we want to protect them from these thugs of the Faith," Armond said, a determined look in his eyes. "And has he had any encounters with the Faith Militant while I was gone?"

"Just a small skirmish near the crossroad a few days ago," Carolei answered. "A group of Poor Fellows had taken over the tavern there, and Elbert drove them out."

"Good," Armond said again, stroking his beard as he turned his eyes to Lyonel. "We'll have a dinner once my son returns, and then we shall discuss your mission further. For now, I think we all could use some rest. Maester Bennis, would you show our guests to their chambers?"

After resting for a moment Lyonel took a bath and changed into a more comfortable clothing, after which he went out to the courtyard together with Axel. First, they went to the stables to groom their horses. Lyonel's mount, Brie, was one of Raventree Hall's many trusty coursers. She was a calm and well-trained brown mare, and Lyonel personally had a lot of experience with her.

Axel's mount on the other hand was a young rounsey, named Patch for the brown patches on his otherwise white coat. Bred and raised in Riverrun, this was undoubtedly the longest journey Patch had ever made, and towards the end of it Axel had had some troubles keeping him calm.

"What exactly do you think our mission will be?" Axel asked as they were brushing their horses.

"I'm not sure," Lyonel admitted with a small sigh. "Lord Armond wants to organize with his allies, but we came here to learn more about the enemy. The only way I see of doing that is to go to Stoney Sept."

For a moment they both remained quiet, until Axel spoke up again. "But what good will going to Stoney Sept do?" he asked with a confused tone. "I mean, I understand that it's where the enemy is, but you don't think they're going to tell anything to us, do you?"

"Not if they know who we are," Lyonel admitted calmly. "However, it seems clear that they are preparing for war. The Faith Militant alone is not strong enough to challenge the Storm King's authority, they need every ally they can muster."

"So, we will pretend to join their cause?" Axel asked.

"Maybe," Lyonel answered hesitantly. "We shall discuss this further with Lord Armond at the dinner."

After grooming their horses, Lyonel and Axel made their way back to the courtyard and sat down by the dead tree in the middle. Soon they were approached by two young boys, one of them around the same age as Axel, while the younger one couldn't be more than ten years old.

"Is it true that there will be war?" the younger one blurted out, and the older smacked him lightly on the ear. "Elston, manners," he said with a chastising tone, before turning back towards Lyonel and Axel and giving them a small bow. "I am Roderick Harlton, the firstborn son of Ser Elbert Harlton and his wife Lady Sarra. This is my younger brother, Elston Harlton."

"Hi," Elston muttered, holding his ear and glaring at his older brother.

"Nice to meet you, little lords," Lyonel said with a warm and friendly tone. "I am Lyonel Bracken, second son of the late Lord Emmon Bracken and sworn sword of Lord Brydan Blackwood."

"And I'm his squire, Axel Rivers from Riverrun," Axel introduced himself with an unenthusiastic tone.

"You were sent here by Lord Brydan, right?" Roderick asked, and Lyonel gave him a nod. "So, is it true? Will there be a war?"

"Sadly, it seems more and more likely after every passing day," Lyonel responded calmly. The looks on the eyes of the two Harlton boys were shocked, but also kind of excited. "Grandfather has told us many stories about the last war," Roderick said with a subtle gulp.

"If there will be war, we will march together with father and grandfather," Elston boasted confidently, to which his brother reacted by rolling his eyes. "You're too young to fight in a war, Elston," he pointed out bluntly.

"I'm only three years younger than you!" Elston complained. Before Roderick could respond to his brother, they heard a horn sounding outside the castle's walls.

"That's our father's horn," Roderick recognized, turning his eyes towards the gates. Soon eight riders in the colors of House Harlton rode in, few of them having one or more arrows attached to them. "Father!" Elston screamed, running towards the riders, and his older brother followed quickly after him. Lyonel and Axel exchanged a concerned look, before going after the Harlton boys.

Elston and Roderick ran to the leader of the group, who had just dismounted his horse and struggled to stay on his feet. There was an arrow embedded slightly above his right knee. The man removed his helmet, revealing a long brown hair and a stubble beard, as well as a pained expression on his broad face.

"Father, are you alright?" Roderick asked with a panicked tone, but the man just handed his helmet to him and collapsed on his left knee.

"Ser Elbert?" Lyonel asked as he approached him, offering his hand to help the man back up on his feet. "I am," he grunted in response as he grabbed Lyonel's hand.

"I'm Lyonel Bracken, here by the orders of Lord Brydan Blackwood," he introduced himself hastily. "What happened?"

"We were ambushed… a couple miles west from here… in the forest," Elbert Harlton explained, breathing heavily. "The Poor Fellows?" Lyonel asked quietly, and Elbert nodded. "Alright, hang on, I'll take you to the maester," he assured, placing himself under Elbert's right arm to support him.

"We lost… at least a dozen men," Ser Elbert muttered as they limped towards the main keep, and Lyonel could see the pain and anger in his green eyes. "They'll be avenged, ser," he promised calmly. As they reached the stairs, Lady Sarra stormed out of the doors. "My love!" she exclaimed with a distraught tone, rushing to hug her husband. "I'm… fine," Elbert muttered, but Sarra shook her head.

"Help me take him to the maester, mylady," Lyonel suggested gently. "That arrow must be taken care of." Sarra took in a deep breath and nodded, and together they brought Ser Elbert to Maester Bennis' quarters.

"Stay strong, ser," Lyonel said with an encouraging tone, before leaving him with his wife and the maester. Roderick, Elston and Axel had followed them to the door of the maester's quarters. "Will he be fine?" Roderick asked immediately as Lyonel stepped outside.

"Aye," he confirmed softly, ruffling the boy's brown hair lightly. "But you have to let the maester do his job."

"I understand," Roderick said with a sigh. Just then, Lord Armond and Lady Carolei approached them on the corridor.

"I heard the Poor Fellows ambushed Elbert and his men," Armond spoke with a troubled tone, and Lyonel nodded in confirmation. "Is he in there?" the lord then asked.

"Yes, he took an arrow right above his right knee," Lyonel explained, to which Carolei reacted with a dramatic gasp. "He should be fine, but… with that kind of injury, he…"

"He may never stand on his own two feet again," Armond concluded with a sullen tone. Tense silence followed his words, until it was broken by Carolei as she approached her grandsons. "Come boys, follow me," she told them, and begrudgingly they complied.

Lyonel put his hand on Armond's shoulder. "We'll make them pay, mylord," he said with a quiet and tense tone, looking the old lord to the eyes. "Every one of them."

"I'll see you at the dinner, Lyonel. One hour," Armond spoke sternly, before walking past him to enter the maester's quarters.

An hour went by, and Lyonel and Axel made their way to the great hall. Ladies Carolei and Sarra were already sitting by the high table, as well as Roderick and Elston. The atmosphere on the hall was gloomy, and for a moment no one said a word. Lyonel and Axel took seats by the other end of the table, leaving two seats free for Armond and Elbert.

"Apologies for the waiting, we will begin the dinner as soon as Armond and Elbert arrive," Lady Carolei explained with an apologetic tone, and Lyonel gave her an understanding nod. A couple minutes passed, only the young boys discussing quietly amongst each other. Then the doors of the hall were opened again, and Armond walked in alone.

"Unfortunately, Elbert is unable to join us this evening," he said with a sigh as he arrived at the table. "He had to take milk of the poppy for the pain, and needs to rest."

"Thank the gods he survived," Sarra said with a relieved sigh.

"Indeed, it could've been much worse," Carolei chimed in.

"Worse?" Armond scoffed as he sat down. "These thugs ambushed my son, and so close to our home no less. The situation is more severe than I could've even imagined."

"We can discuss that later. Now, let us eat and drink in peace," Carolei spoke, softly placing her hand on Armond's shoulder. "Servants, bring us the food," she then commanded.

It was a quiet and awkward dinner. Carolei complimented the food and wine and Lyonel agreed with her, Axel told a short story about catching a fish once with bare hands, which Roderick and Elston especially seemed to enjoy. However, Armond and Sarra remained quiet throughout the dinner. Lyonel could see anger in the eyes of Armond, and fear in Sarra's.

"Boys, it's time for you to go to bed," Sarra spoke up when they were all done eating.

"But I want to hear what grandfather plans to do next," Roderick protested, which led to Armond finally speaking up. "You're too young to concern yourself with this, boy," he said with a quiet but authoritative tone. Roderick looked disappointed, but didn't have the courage to protest further.

"Come, we'll go see your father first," Sarra told her sons, and with some murmur they followed her out of the hall.

"I assume you are planning something," Carolei started as the doors were closed, looking at her husband. "An attack like this… it can't go unanswered."

"You are absolutely right," Armond responded, leaning back on his chair. He stroked his beard and gazed up, a pondering look in his eyes. "It is clear that we cannot just sit around and wait for someone to help us, be it the Storm King or Lord Brydan. We must act now, we must act ourselves."

"And?" Carolei urged him to continue.

"And the first step will be to contact our allies," he continued calmly. "In fact, I already told Maester Bennis to send ravens to lords Cargyll, Chyttering and Byrch. Together we should be able to amass large enough force to protect our lands against the Faith Militant."

"Are you sure we can trust Chyttering and Byrch?" Carolei asked quietly.

"I have to trust Ulwyck Chyttering, he is my son-in-law," Armond responded dryly. "As for Bernarr Byrch, his house has been sworn to the Storm King since Arlan the Avenger marched to Blackwater Rush over a century ago. I doubt he'll change sides now."

"And what will be my role in all of this?" Lyonel joined the conversation, gaining the attention of both the Lord and Lady Harlton.

"I assume you still wish to fulfill the task that Lord Brydan gave you?" Armond asked calmly.

"To learn more about this Lucifer Justman, yes," Lyonel confirmed, and Armond nodded to him. "In that case, I do have an idea. A plan, even," he said, his lips forming a thin smile.

"I'm all ears," Lyonel said.

"First, I should ask you something," Armond said, taking in a deep breath. "Have you ever been to Duskendale?"

"Yes, years ago," Lyonel answered with a raised eyebrow. He had been to Duskendale once, a couple years after the war when Lord Brydan and his uncle Ronas had visited there.

"Good, because for my plan to work you'll have to convincingly pull off being from there," Armond explained. "You see, over sixty years ago King Arlan the Second drove the Faith Militant out of Duskendale, and ever since then they have craved to claim back their chapterhouse there. If you were to approach them, claiming to be a messenger of a potential ally in Duskendale, I have no doubt they would tell you everything you want to hear."

"Clever," Lyonel admitted with a slight smirk. "However, from what I know of Lord Renly Darklyn, he doesn't strike me as the kind of man who would seek an alliance with the Faith Militant."

"And that is why you'll claim to have been sent by Lord Damion Darke," Armond responded sharply. "I've met and exchanged letters with him in the past and know him to be a religious man. I can have Maester Bennis forge a message by him, it should be enough to fool the Faith Militant. Like I said, they've craved to reclaim their position in Duskendale for a long time, they'll be eager to rush into an opportunity like this."

Lyonel took in a deep breath and turned his eyes to his squire. "What do you think, Axel?" he asked with a relaxed tone. The boy looked surprised by the question, but answered nonetheless. "I think it sounds like a solid plan," he said.

"Then I shall do it," Lyonel said, giving a nod to Lord Armond.


	13. Ellyn I

**Ellyn**

Lady Ellyn woke up to the first beams of sunlight shining into the lord's chambers at the highest story of Raventree Hall. She was laying naked on the bed, under a warm blanket together with Lord Brydan Blackwood. She turned her eyes to him, seeing that he was still asleep. With a small smile on her face she listened to her husband's soft and snuffled breathing. He looked relaxed and happy, which made Ellyn happy as well.

With a yawn she climbed up from the bed, walking in front of the mirror. With a slight smirk she eyed the reflection of her svelte and shapely naked body. In the eyes of the world she was just an innocent and simple pretty girl, but during the week following their wedding she had begun to reveal another side of herself to Brydan, a more shrewd and ambitious side. Brydan was a smart and good-hearted man, but it was clear he wasn't comfortable with the authority he wielded, always second guessing his decisions and orders. Soon after their first night together he had begun to open up about his doubts to Ellyn, and she had gladly offered him her support and guidance. _He needs someone like me by his side._

While Ellyn dressed up and brushed her hair, Brydan finally begun to open his eyes. "Morning," he muttered tiredly, still tucked under the blanket.

"Morning, my love," Ellyn chirped, seeing a smile forming on Brydan's face. "Any plans for today?" she asked softly.

"We're still waiting for a response from Smallwood, Vance and Keath regarding the rumors about Faith Militant's actions on their lands," Brydan responded with a sigh. "Regardless of whether we get them though, I'm sure Uncle Ronas will want to hold a council meeting."

"He's not the lord though," Ellyn remarked calmly, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"No, but he's always been there to guide me," Brydan said quietly. "I wouldn't be where I am today if it wasn't for him and Prince Barron helping me."

"And I'm sure you needed their help when you were a child," Ellyn said, placing her hand gently atop Brydan's chest. "However, now you are a man grown, and it's about time your uncle recognizes that as well."

Brydan gulped subtly, an uncertain look in his eyes as he gazed at the ceiling.

"What is it?" Ellyn asked calmly, and Brydan turned his eyes to her. "You… you seem to have this trust for me, this belief in my ability to play the role that was given to me," he started hesitantly, turning his eyes to the ceiling again. "But… I fear you may be wrong. You've known me for such a short time, and I think you may be overlooking my weakness. I fear that eventually I will let you down, along with all of the Riverlands. This role that I inherited from my father, I fear I am too weak to carry his legacy."

Ellyn moved her hand on Brydan's cheek, and softly turned his face so that their eyes met again. "A truly weak man would never speak as you do now," she whispered. "A truly weak man would deny his weakness, try to hide it beneath a façade of some kind. It takes courage to admit your own weakness, and it is required to be truly strong."

"You speak so wisely, mylady," Brydan said with a smile returning to his face. "Tell me, who taught you to be so wise?"

"My mother, for the most part," Ellyn responded with a carefree tone, and Brydan's smile died down slightly. "Well, that would explain it. I never had one," he said, and while his tone was humorous it was still easy to see that this was a sore spot for him. And indeed, Ellyn had heard before that Lady Marla Blackwood had died to a harsh fever mere weeks after giving birth to Brydan.

"I'm sorry," Ellyn said sincerely, but Brydan shook his head and forced a smile on his face. "Don't be," he said calmly. "Because of you I'm happier now than I've been in a long time."

They had breakfast together, after which Brydan went out for his morning sparring with Ser Uthor Wayn, the master-at-arms of the castle. Ellyn remained in their chambers for a while longer, wondering what she should do to pass the time. After the wedding guests had left Raventree Hall, the young lady had had precious little company aside from Brydan. Most of her friends had returned to Riverrun, only her handmaiden Tanya Lychester and her younger brother Errol remaining in Raventree Hall. While Tanya was a sweet and loyal girl, she was also five years younger than Ellyn and not one for long and interesting conversations. As for Errol, he had mostly spent his time with the other squires of the castle. Ellyn had also spent some time with Amabel Wayn, the elderly wife of Ser Uthor. She clearly had a lot of life experience, though Ellyn find some of her stories more tiresome than insightful.

Eventually, Ellyn decided to go for a walk on the godswood by herself. It was a cloudy day, and colder than most in recent times. _First signs of autumn_ , Ellyn thought as she snuck her hands under her cloak to keep them warm. Quietly she walked to the dead heart tree, and stopped to marvel it for a moment. Ellyn had never much cared about the gods, but she had to admit there was something magical about the carved face and red eyes of the weirwood. In the silence of the godswood, she felt like she could almost hear the gods whispering to her. _If I move a bit closer, perhaps I can hear it._

"Mylady Blackwood," the kindly voice of an elderly woman shifted Ellyn's attention away from the weirwood. Turning around she saw Amabel Wayn approaching her with slow and faltering steps. She was a hunched, wrinkled and white-haired woman on her late seventies, but there was still kindness and love in her blue eyes. "Were you praying, mylady?" she asked with a friendly smile.

"I… yes, for my marriage," Ellyn answered with the first thing that came to her mind, and Amabel nodded. "I hope there are no troubles, you two seem like such a good match," the old woman spoke with a curious tone, and with a chuckle Ellyn shook her head. "Nothing like that," she assured calmly. "And I agree with you, me and Lord Brydan fit together well. I simply want the gods to protect us in these hectic times, so we may bear many children and ensure the future of this house and this land."

"You are right to trust in the Old Gods, mylady," Amabel said softly, turning her eyes to the weirwood as she spoke. "They listen to us, always. However, their power here has greatly diminished from what it once was. For many centuries vile men in their ignorance have taken many of their eyes and ears by cutting and burning down the weirwoods of this land. King Humfrey Teague was the latest of those men, and I fear there are still more to come."

"So, if all the weirwoods are felled and thus the power of the Old Gods taken away, won't the Seven win?" Ellyn asked calmly.

"The Seven are nothing more than delusions of ignorant men, my dear," Amabel answered with a sigh.

"But the Old Gods are… different?" Ellyn asked with a raised eyebrow. Amabel stepped closer to her, and gently grabbed her hand. "Can you not feel their presence right now, mylady?" she asked quietly.

Ellyn gulped and listened to the leaves of the godswood quivering in the soft wind. She stared into the red eyes of the weirwood, and somehow, she could feel them staring back. "Yes, I feel their presence," she said quietly.

"Do not fear child," Amabel said softly, a kindly smile on her face. "The Old Gods will protect you and your husband."

After this strange experience Ellyn made her way out of the godswood and into the inner yard, still going through in her mind what had just happened. She had felt something or someone looking at her through the eyes of the weirwood, but perhaps it had just been her mind playing tricks on her.

Raising up her gaze, Ellyn saw her brother standing by the entrance of the great hall together with Jon Bigglestone, the young and lanky squire of Ser Uthor Wayn. At the age of sixteen Errol Tully was the youngest of Lord Everan's and Lady Perriane's children, with Ellyn being twenty and their other brother Eddison being eighteen.

"Sister," Errol greeted her lazily as she approached them. "Lady Blackwood," Jon Bigglestone spoke with a more respectful tone, even bowing briefly to her.

"Lord Brydan wanted me to tell you that he wishes to speak with you after his council meeting," Errol informed her, his arms crossed and a smug expression on his boyish face. "You've already got him wrapped around your finger, haven't you?" he asked nonchalantly.

"What are you trying to imply?" Ellyn asked with a frown, to which her little brother chuckled coldly. "I know you, sister," he said calmly. "And I know you're trying to control Lord Brydan, worming your way into his mind with your words and… well, you know."

"And why would I do that, brother?" Ellyn asked with a sardonic tone, and Errol took a step closer to her, looking her straight to the eyes. "Because you want power," he said quietly, emphasizing every word. "Or am I wrong, sister?"

"You mentioned a council meeting, what is it about?" Ellyn asked sternly, ignoring her brother's question. With a sigh Errol stepped back and shrugged. "A raven from Castlewood arrived this morning, that's all I know," he answered unenthusiastically.

"Thanks," Ellyn replied dryly, and made her way past Errol and Jon into the keep. As she walked through the keep and up the stairs, she realized that her brother's words were bothering her. It wasn't the first time Errol had spoken like this, from the moment Ellyn had declared her willingness to marry Lord Brydan he had accused her of doing it just for her own gain. However, the worst part was that Ellyn wasn't sure if she could really deny it. Of course she wanted what was best for the Riverlands, and her marriage with Brydan solidified the alliance between their houses and thus enforced the peace, but there was no denying that marrying the most influential lord in the region was also a great opportunity for her personally. _It's a role someone must fill, so why not me?_

With a sigh Ellyn stepped into the lord's chambers, finding her handmaiden Tanya cleaning the small table there. "Mylady," the blonde girl said with a slightly surprised tone. "I wasn't expecting you so soon, it's hardly past noon. I can fetch a meal from the kitchens though in case you're hungry."

"No need, Tanya," Ellyn responded softly, and sat down on the settee by the fireplace. "I only came so early because Brydan wants to discuss something," she explained calmly. Seeing the slightly confused look in her handmaiden's eyes, she continued. "He is in a council meeting at the moment, but wanted to see me after it."

"I see," Tanya responded quietly. "Perhaps I could bring some wine for you?"

"That would be lovely," Ellyn said calmly, and with a curtsey the girl hurried out of the room. Ellyn leaned back and took in a deep breath, just relaxing. However, that didn't last long, because less than a minute after Tanya had left Brydan walked into their chambers.

Seeing Ellyn at the settee, a relieved expression took over the young lord's face. With a tired sigh he sat down next to her, and she moved her arm smoothly on his lap. "You wanted to talk," she said softly, and Brydan nodded.

"Word from Lord Harlton," he muttered grimly, his gaze locked on the floor. "The Faith Militant has gotten increasingly aggressive in the south, harassing villages that refuse to pay tribute to them. And now they've even begun to attack noblemen who remain loyal to me and the Storm King. Lord Harlton's son was badly injured in an ambush set by the Poor Fellows."

"That is… concerning," Ellyn said quietly, wondering just how dangerous of a situation she had sent her cousin Axel into. "Was there any word of Lyonel?" she asked with a subtle gulp.

"He is still continuing on with his mission, preparing to enter Stoney Sept and investigate this Lucifer Justman," Brydan answered. "However, it's already clear by now that the peace has been broken. The Faith Militant must know their actions will lead to war, yet they seem to have thrown away all pretense. They must be confident that they can remove the Storm King's authority and replace it with their false king."

"So, they must have allies," Ellyn deduced quietly, and Brydan nodded in agreement. "Indeed," he said with a sigh. "House Keath must be in league with them, otherwise I would've learned about the severity of this situation much sooner. Houses Vance and Smallwood are also suspect, despite both of them being loyal to my father in the last war. However, I fear there is even more."

"It would make sense for Lord Osmund Harroway to side with the Faith Militant," Ellyn pointed out. "His father and uncle were slain in the Battle of Six Kings, his brother and sister were killed when Lord Darklyn sacked Harroway, and his other brother was sent to the Wall by the Storm King."

"And my uncle Robert murdered his aunt, Queen Melissa, when he captured Trident Hall," Brydan concluded with a joyless tone. "Everyone lost someone in that war, but few had it worse than Osmund Harroway. I pity the man, but if he has chosen to ally with the Faith Militant I have no choice but to consider him an enemy."

"And what of Lord Petyr Mallister?" Ellyn brought up, and instantly saw visible concern in Brydan's eyes. "His father fought and died for King Humfrey as well," he said quietly, clenching his fists in a nervous manner. "If Lord Mallister has already allied himself with the Faith Militant, we're quite literally surrounded by enemies."

Before Ellyn could respond the door was opened again, as Tanya returned with a flagon of wine. Quietly she poured it into two cups by the table, before approaching Ellyn and Brydan. "Some wine as you requested, mylady," she spoke quietly, clearly a bit nervous due to the tense atmosphere in the room.

"Thank you," Ellyn said with a thin smile as she took the cups and gave the other one to her husband. "Thank you," Brydan also muttered, and with a curtsey Tanya made her way out again.

"So… what did you decide in the council meeting?" Ellyn asked after a tense moment of silence, and before Brydan answered he took a sip of the wine. "Ronas says I should send envoys to Seagard and Harroway, to try and convince Lords Mallister and Harroway to remain loyal to us," he explained with an uncertain tone. "However, I fear that whoever I send will just be captured or killed. Ronas says that would confirm our concerns and be cause to move against them."

"I say it would be a waste," Ellyn said decisively, and with a surprised expression Brydan turned his gaze to her. "This isn't the time to negotiate," she continued calmly. "Instead, you should reinstate your authority to these lords. Send each of them a raven, demand them to come and pledge their loyalty to you personally, or refuse and be branded as an enemy of the Riverlands and the Storm King."

"I… doubt they would comply," Brydan said hesitantly, and Ellyn nodded with a smirk. "And by refusing they reveal their intentions," she said sharply. "Same result as Ronas' plan, but without needlessly putting those loyal to you in danger by sending them into the hands of a potential enemy."

"Yes… yes, that is what I will do," Brydan decided after a short moment of consideration, a confident smile now forming on his face. "I knew I could trust in your advice, my love. Which brings to my mind… There is something I would like to propose to you."

"Propose?" Ellyn asked with a raised eyebrow, gulping down rest of the wine in her cup.

"Yes," Brydan replied with a nervous chuckle. "I haven't yet spoken about it to anyone else, so feel free to refuse if you wish. I… would like to offer you a seat in the council."

Ellyn remained quiet for a moment, studying Brydan's face to make sure he wasn't joking. "A seat in the council," she finally repeated with a baffled tone. "How do you think the others will react? How will your uncle react?"

"It is as you said earlier, Ellyn," Brydan responded with an affectionate tone, softly moving his fingers through her hair. "I am the lord here, not my uncle. Thus, I decide who sits in the council, and I believe you have proven your advice to be just as valuable as my other councilors, if not more so. So, do you accept my offer?"

"Yes, I do," Ellyn responded excitedly, and rushed to kiss her husband passionately on the lips.


	14. Barron I

**Barron**

The sun had set when Prince Barron Durrandon finally arrived at the gates of Storm's End. He had rode like the wind through the Riverlands and the northern Stormlands, having left Raventree Hall two weeks ago. The light of the crescent moon glimmered on the stones of the ancient castle, and even to the gates Barron could hear the sounds of the feast.

The guards escorted him to the inner courtyard, where he was approached by a large and imposing man with long brown hair and bushy beard, and a wide grin beneath it. He was dressed in a black-and-white doublet decorated with a pair of battling swans, which made Barron deduce that the man was Lord Domeric Swann. Together with his father Lord Aubrey Swann he had fought in the Riverlands sixteen years ago, and as Aubrey had fell in the Battle of Six Kings his son had taken up the mantle of Lord of Stonehelm at the young age of twenty and six.

"Prince Barron!" the marcher lord greeted him with an obviously drunken voice.

"I've come to give my farewells for my brother, and to see the coronation of my nephew," Barron responded to Domeric with a serious tone, and immediately his grin disappeared, replaced by an apologetic look. "Of course, I'm sorry my prince," he muttered awkwardly. "However, King Arlan has already been buried in the crypts this morning, and Ormund has been crowned the new Storm King. You're just in time for the feast though, the new king hasn't even made his speech yet!"

"First I want to give farewells for my brother," Barron replied calmly, and Domeric nodded understandingly. "I'll come with you, my prince," he said with a bow, and so they made their way into the crypts behind the sept. Domeric led them with a torch in his hand to illuminate the dark tunnels beneath the ground. They walked past the crypts of many long dead Storm Kings, such as Maldon the Seventh who suffered a humiliating defeat against King Gyles Gardener the Third several centuries ago, Cleoden the Third who spent his whole twenty-year reign waging war against the Dornish, and Arlan the Avenger who expanded the Kingdom of Storm to Blackwater Rush over a century ago. And finally, they reached Arlan the Third's grave. Statue of a mighty warrior stood atop it, which Barron knew had been sculpted shortly after the war on Riverlands. It depicted Arlan in his prime, a handsome and fierce warrior king.

Barron took in a deep breath and stepped closer to the statue, placing his right hand softly against the cold and damp stone. "Oh, brother," he uttered with a mix of grief and joy in his voice, as memories from decades ago surfaced in his mind. Barron had always been the lesser of the two brothers, but that had never diminished the amount of love and respect Arlan had showed him. _Why would the gods decide to take you first?_

"Arlan's death is a great loss for the whole kingdom," Domeric spoke with quiet and respectful words, and Barron gave him a wordless nod. He removed his hand from the statue and stepped back, gulping subtly as his gaze scanned the stone depiction of his brother.

"Let us hope his son will have a long and prosperous reign," Barron muttered sternly as he turned away from his brother's grave. "Well then, the feast awaits, and I'm starving."

They made their way to the great hall, where musicians were playing, wine flowed and the nobility from all over Stromlands were enjoying themselves. Prince Barron made his way to the royal table on the dais, where King Ormund the Fourth sat with the crown on his head. Next to him was his wife, now Queen, Shiera Durrandon. Then there were their children, the Crown Prince Baldric, Princess Alissa and Prince Durwald, all of them under sixteen years old. Next to them was Ormund's younger sister, Princess Marleina. On the other end of the table were seated Arlan's second wife and Shiera's younger sister, the Dowager Queen Shana Durrandon, and her daughter Princess Arya.

"Uncle Barron!" Ormund stood up to greet him as he walked up to the dais, embracing him into a brief hug. "I was wondering if you'd be able to make it."

"Nearly rode my horse to death to make the journey as fast as possible," Barron grunted in response, to which his nephew let out a hearty laughter.

"It is good to see you again, uncle," Marleina spoke, a thin smile on her face. "The pleasure is all mine, niece," Barron responded politely. Though there was no hostility between them, he had never had a particularly close relationship with his niece. As children she had been raised by the ladies of Storm's End, and in adulthood she had had her duties in Griffin's Roost.

Barron took the seat between the King and the Dowager Queen, and began to eat and drink.

"So, I assume you've heard of the troubles in Riverlands," Barron spoke up after quenching the worst of his hunger and thirst.

"The ravens have reached Storm's End, yes," Ormund responded unenthusiastically. "The Faith Militant has always been a bothersome nuisance. As the chief advisor of the Warden of Riverlands, I trust you will find a way to deal with these problems."

"Oh, I know one way that would certainly work," Barron said sharply. "March your armies to Riverlands like your father did, remind them of our power. That should bloody do it."

Ormund glanced at his uncle tiredly and let out a sigh. "It's a long march to Riverlands," he said calmly. "We cannot afford to assemble the whole might of Stormlands every time some lunatic of the Faith Militant decides to kill a few peasants. My father trusted the Blackwoods to protect the Riverlands in his name, and as I recall your role was to make sure they do just that."

Before Barron could answer to Ormund, the Dowager Queen next to him spoke up. "So, you would abandon my brother, your brother-in-law, in his time of need?" she asked sternly, a sharp glare in her green eyes. "I doubt Arlan would've done that."

"I do not wish to insult you, Queen Shana, but I believe I knew my father better than you did," Ormund responded, a cold and sarcastic smile on his face.

"And do you have nothing to say to this, sister?" Shana challenged Queen Shiera, who reacted with a frustrated sigh. "Do _you_ have no trust in our brother, Shana?" she asked in response. "He's not a boy anymore, I'm certain that he's fully capable of doing his duty."

"Excuse me, my king, my queens, but Lord Brydan's capabilities are not the issue here," Barron sternly inserted himself back into the conversation. "And it is not just about some crazed Warrior's Sons causing havoc either – we're talking about a full-blown rebellion, or at least it could become one if we don't act quickly to squash it. They have even crowned themselves a king, a man who calls himself Lucifer Justman. Do you understand that, my king? A man on the territory that your father conquered, that you now rule, calls himself a king. It is high treason and demands an answer."

Tense silence on the royal table followed Barron's words, until Ormund spoke up again. "Fine then, I will grant you some men from our closest bannermen to deal with the issue," he said begrudgingly. "However, the full might of the Stormlands I cannot give you, uncle, for I have other plans for that might."

"Other plans?" Barron asked with a frown, and King Ormund simply nodded to him. Then he grabbed his goblet and stood up, quickly gathering the attention of the whole great hall.

"Speech, speech!" some chanted cheerfully on the lower tables, and Ormund nodded to them with a smile.

"Aye, I do indeed have a few words for you, my dear lords and ladies," he spoke with his smooth and charismatic voice. "I've mourned for my father since the day that he died, and I doubt there will ever come a day that I won't look back to when he was still here with us. However, time has come for the Stromlands to turn its gaze towards future again." Ormund paused for a moment, letting his eyes soar over the nobles who had all quieted down to hear his speech. "I'm grateful for the legacy my father has left me, but I am also determined to build upon it. Arlan marched to Riverlands not to conquer but to help a friend, but in the end the circumstances forced him to annex the region. It was the greatest conquest any Strom King has ever made, but it was never my father's dream. His true dream was to subdue the Dornish regions of the Red Mountains under our rule, and I will be the one to see his dream come reality."

Ormund paused again, letting the surprised audience whisper amongst each other for a moment before continuing. "I know what some of you are thinking right now. Yes, Arlan's attempt to conquer Dorne six years ago failed, after his army suffered a crushing defeat on the Boneway. We underestimated Princess Nymeria and her Principality back then, but we will not make the same mistake again. Instead of simply marching on the Red Mountains, we shall also send a strong fleet of ships to the Greenblood, forcing the Dornish to fight on two fronts. Together, my lords, we shall crush the Dornish. Ours is the fury!"

The nobles in the hall reacted to the King's speech with roaring cheers and applauds, some even starting to chant his name. With a satisfied smile Ormund sat down, and Barron shot his nephew with a cold glare.

"Spare me from your complaints, uncle," Ormund said dryly, the people in the hall still cheering for him. "This war is my destiny, just as conquering Riverlands was Arlan's."

"I will not deny it from you, Your Grace," Barron responded calmly. Of course he disapproved this reckless decision, especially now that Riverlands was at the verge of another war, but he knew already that his nephew's mind would not be changed. _If I wish to have any troops with me when I return to Riverlands, I better not anger him_.

"I expected you to be more… stubborn," Ormund said with a pleasantly surprised tone.

"I know better than to deny the Storm King his desire for conquest," Barron replied with a sigh. "Just know that the situation has grown extremely precarious, and the day may come when the only options you have are to either march north or give up your dominion over Riverlands."

"I have no doubt in my mind that you will pacify the situation before it gets to that, uncle. Truly, you deserve praise for how exceptionally you have governed Riverlands for these past sixteen years," Ormund spoke with honeyed words. It was empty flattery, but Barron played along. "Thank you, Your Grace," he said calmly. "I do believe I am indeed capable of governing Riverlands. However, to ensure that our hold on the land endures whatever troubles lay ahead, a show of force will be necessary. And for that, I will need troops."

"You have troops. House Blackwood and their vassals are under your command," Ormund responded with a sly smirk. "However, in case that isn't enough, our vassals at Blackwater Bay are also at your disposal. They served us well against the Teagues, did they not? If there is to be another conflict on Riverlands they will surely serve us well again."

 _So, I get the scraps,_ Barron thought with some frustration, but gave the King a polite nod nonetheless. It was true, the houses of Blackwater Bay could form quite a formidable army together. However, those houses were famously quarrelsome amongst each other, and weren't exactly known for their loyalty.

The rest of the evening was free of talks of war, and with the help of the wine Barron even managed to relax and enjoy himself after the exhausting journey behind him. Shana and Shiera were especially curious to hear about the goings-on of Raventree Hall, and the more wine Barron drank the crasser his stories became. By the end of the night he was telling about the time Olyvar Chambers was tricked to drink horse piss, breaking into laughter after every other word.

The next morning Prince Barron woke up with an agonizing headache. It took him a moment to recall where he was, before he recognized the room around him. It was the very same chamber he had lived in during his youth in Strom's End, located on the higher floors of the massive keep.

Gritting his teeth, Barron raised from his bed. For a moment he felt the urge to throw up, but managed to compose himself at the last moment. "Fucking hell," he muttered as he made his way out of his chambers. It was a cloudy and slightly windy day outside, but Barron decided to make his way atop the walls nonetheless. From there he admired the billowing Shipbreaker Bay, and listened as the waves smashed against the rocks beneath him.

Barron was no maester, but it was clear to see that autumn was near. _Yet another reason why Ormund should reconsider his plans._ Storm Kings had regularly waged war with the Dornish for centuries, and even Arlan hadn't been able to subdue them. Perhaps Ormund could be the one to do it, but Barron had his doubts.

"Prince Barron," a female voice spoke behind him, and he turned to see Shana Durrandon approaching him. Technically speaking she was his sister-in-law, but being twenty-five years younger she might as well have been his daughter. "Queen Shana," Barron responded with a respectful nod.

"Not much of a queen anymore," she responded with a small sigh. "Anyway, how are you feeling?"

"I've had worse hangovers," Barron answered with a tiny smirk. "And you?"

"I'm… fine, I suppose," Shana answered calmly. "It's weird, Arlan has been dead for weeks, but seeing his crown on Ormund's head was what made me truly realize that he is gone."

"You may not be the Queen any longer, but I guarantee that you and your daughter will be treated with utmost respect here," Barron assured.

"I know," Shana replied nonchalantly. "Still, I feel that I've lost my purpose here. What am I supposed to do with the rest of my life? Smile and watch idly as my sister and her husband rule?"

"Perhaps you should concentrate on Arya," Barron suggested calmly. "I'm sure that's what Arlan would've wanted."

A sad little smile formed on Shana's face, and she gazed into the sea with longing eyes. "I talked about this with him many times during the weeks before he passed," she said quietly. "The thought of leaving Arya behind without a father hurt him more than anything, he was always so protective of her. And despite all the pain he refused to accept that he didn't have much time left in this world. He thought he could pull through with sheer will."

"Aye, that sounds like Arlan," Barron replied wistfully, and a moment of silence followed.

"Barron, there is a request I have for you," Shana finally spoke up again, and Barron gave her a questioning look. "When you go back to Riverlands, please allow me and Arya to come with you," she pleaded.

"Why?" Barron asked with a raised eyebrow. Shana gulped subtly, and considered her words for a few seconds before speaking up. "Like I said, there is no purpose for me here anymore, and I want to see Raventree Hall again. And my brother, I want to see what kind of man Brydan has grown to be."

"And are you sure this is something Arya wants?" Barron asked with narrowed eyes, and Shana nodded. "If she remains here, she'll never be able to move on from the pain of losing Arlan," she said with a sigh. "She grew up here, but I believe it would be for her own good to live somewhere else, at least for some time."

"You're a free woman, as is your daughter," Barron stated calmly. "However, I must warn you. Riverlands is not exactly safe right now, and I might well be marching to a war as I return there. Of course, I will do everything in my power to keep both of you safe regardless, but wars are unpredictable."

"I am the daughter of Lord Roderick, and Arya is the daughter of King Arlan. We are not easily frightened," Shana said confidently, and Barron gave her a soft smile. "Well, I can certainly see my brother's influence in you," he said with a benevolent tone. "So be it, we shall travel together."


	15. Walton III

**Walton**

"And you're sure it was Lord Ilyn Vyrwel?" Lord Waymar Manderly asked sternly, and with a gulp his son Walton nodded. They were in the chambers given to the Manderly lord in Highgarden, Walton's mother Lady Alicent standing by the window with a concerned expression on her face, and his older brother Andrew guarding the door.

It was the morning of the first tourney day, and Walton's family had arrived the last night. Walton had told them what he had overheard in Horn Hill just a week before, to which they had understandably reacted with some skepticism.

"Yes, I believe he was speaking with his brother, Ser Gormon," Walton explained. With a sigh his father leaned back on his chair, a frustrated expression on his stocky face. Lord Waymar was one of the wealthiest lords in the Reach, which he made no efforts to hide with his expensive and extravagant attires. Of course, much of that wealth came from the inherited family fortune, but Waymar had also taken steps to increase House Manderly's wealth by making investments in Oldtown and increasing trade overseas. Even though such endeavors could be seen as benefitting all of the Reach, it was also a source of jealousy for many Reachman lords.

"Well, I had suspected that Lord Peake was envious of my wealth, but I wouldn't have guessed him to take it as far as plotting against my family," Waymar grunted with a displeased tone. "What more did you hear, boy?"

"Lord Ilyn mentioned that when they are to move against us, it'll be done in a way that would paint us as the traitors and not them," Walton answered with a nervous tone, to which his father frowned. However, it was Andrew who spoke up now. "And how would they do that?" he asked with a confused tone, and all Walton could give in response to his brother was a shrug.

"Anything more?" Waymar inquired sternly. Walton remained quiet for a moment, thinking back on that night and trying to remember what more he had heard. "They spoke about who would support Lord Peake in his efforts against us," he recalled, struggling to remember the details. "I think they mentioned… Fossoways, Florents, Raylans…"

"Raylans?" Waymar cut him off with a surprised and irate tone. "I consider Lord Adrack a friend, are you sure this is what you heard, boy?"

"I… I'm pretty sure they mentioned that Raylans would side with them, yes," Walton responded with a gulp. The anger on his father's face was replaced by disappointment, and then doubt. "I find that hard to believe," he muttered, shaking his head slightly. "And what of Lord Tarly, did they speak of him?"

"Symon is not in on their conspiracy," Walton assured calmly. "However, Lord Ilyn's heir is married with Symon's eldest daughter, so…"

"So he cannot be trusted either," Waymar concluded with a bitter tone.

"Will you speak to the King about this, father?" Andrew asked calmly, and Waymar shook his head. "No, Lord Peake is too close with King Greydon, and there is not enough evidence," he said sternly. "However, I will speak of this with Lord Hightower."

Walton knew that his father's older sister Merianne was married to Ser Lester Hightower, the heir of the old Lord Glendon Hightower. He didn't know how close of a connection Waymar had with the Lord of Oldtown, but if he was willing to speak to him about this there had to be a lot of trust between them.

"And what of Walton?" Lady Alicent spoke up, and Waymar turned to look at her. "What of him?" he asked calmly, and she took a few steps closer to them.

"You said that we can't trust Lord Tarly anymore," Alicent spoke strictly, glancing at her son with concerned eyes. "Doesn't that mean it is time for Walton to come back home?"

"No," Waymar responded to his wife without hesitation. "He will remain as Lord Symon's ward, and he will keep his eyes and ears open for anything that might hint towards Lord Peake's plans. Do you understand, boy?" he asked, looking at Walton now.

"Yes, father," Walton replied with a dutiful nod, and a thin smile formed on Waymar's face. "See, the boy is willing to do his part," he said to Alicent, who sighed and shook her head. "Only because he doesn't understand the risks," she said, now lowering herself next to Walton. She placed her hand on his shoulder and looked him to the eyes. "I've missed you badly, my son," she said softly.

For a split-second Walton wanted to answer that he had missed her too, for that was the truth, but as his gaze shifted back to Waymar he changed his mind. "You don't have to worry about me, mother," he said with all the confidence he could muster. "I'm almost a man grown now."

Alicent chuckled gently to his words, and lightly stroked his fair hair. "I'll never stop worrying about you, my child," she said with a wistful sigh, before standing up and taking a step back. "Now, I think it's time we made our way to the tourney field, Willam should have his first joust at any moment."

Not many nobles were present at the large tourney pavilion reserved for them at this time. After all these were the first rounds of the joust, and the true excitement would be on the fifth day of the tourney when the champion would be determined. However, Walton's younger sister Meliana was there together with Ser Patrek Lowther, the master-at-arms of Dunstonbury.

"Has Willam rode yet?" Andrew asked as they approached them, and Ser Patrek shook his head. "But Ser Triston Tarly just unhorsed Ser Olymer Wythers." And indeed, Walton could see Triston on the other side of the tiltyard, being congratulated by his father and brother, while the older Wythers knight limped away with a defeated expression.

"Good to see you again, brother," Meliana spoke, measuring Walton with her sharp gaze. She had grown during the two years they had been apart, being now at the age of eleven, but she was by no means a woman grown. "Likewise, sister," Walton responded with a hesitant smirk. "I take it you've behaved yourself while I've been gone."

"No, she hasn't," Andrew chimed in with a humorous tone.

"Yes, I have," Meliana insisted, giving Andrew an irritated glare.

"You shouldn't speak against your older brother," Andrew remarked, wagging his finger with a sly grin on his face. "Well that's just unfair," Meliana protested.

"Enough," Lord Waymar said with a calm but authoritative tone, nodding towards the tiltyard where an announcer had now arrived. The man opened a scroll to read from and cleared his throat. "Next to ride, Ser Willam Manderly of Dunstonbury, against Ser Harry of Little Dosk," the man announced ceremonially, which was followed by the chime of trumpets. Willam rode to one end of the tiltyard, clad in his shining plated armor and wielding a lance painted in turquoise and white. His opponent at the other end of the tiltyard looked sturdy, built like a warrior. However, his gear revealed that he was of modest background, most likely a hedge knight. The man was clad in a well-worn armor that was a mixture of leather and chainmail, and bore no colors of any noble house. Instead, on his brown shield was painted only a golden seven-pointed star.

"Finally, Willam gets to show his worth," Andrew said excitedly, but his father merely scoffed. "A hedge knight will not be nearly enough of a challenge for Willam to show his worth," Lord Waymar said nonchalantly, just before the two knights charged into the first tilt. The hedge knight's lance missed its target completely, while Andrew's bumped heavily against his opponent's shield. However, both remained atop their horses and turned around for the second tilt as they reached the ends of the tiltyard.

Ser Willam and Ser Henry clashed again, though this time both of them hit each other's shields. However, it looked as if Henry's blow was harder, and for a split-second Walton feared that Willam would fall. He remained atop his horse, but it was clear by now that unhorsing this hedge knight was no easy task even for someone as skilled as Ser Willam. And so they charged for the third tilt. Ser Henry's lance splintered on impact with Willam's shield, but both riders remained on their saddles.

While they waited for Henry's spare lance to be brought to him, Walton noticed Willam turning his gaze up towards the sky. _Perhaps he is praying,_ he thought with a gulp. Walton could only imagine how nervous his second cousin had to be right now. He had come here to win glory, and to be unhorsed on the first round by a hedge knight would be the furthest thing possible from that.

Ser Henry got his new lance, and so the knights charged for the fourth tilt. Ser Henry's lance scraped on Willam's shield, while the Manderly knight's lance slipped under his shield. With a grunt of pain, the hedge knight tumbled down from his horse. Willam Manderly had won his first joust on the tourney.

"We should go congratulate Willam," Andrew said cheerfully.

"You do that, I'll go see this Ser Henry," Waymar said sternly. "A knight of his skill should have a lord to serve."

While the Manderly lord approached the hedge knight, Walton, Andrew and Meliana went to their second cousin. "Congratulations, cousin!" Andrew yelled with a grin as Willam dismounted his horse. He removed his helmet and let out a sigh. "Not my best joust," he said with a displeased tone, but Andrew tapped him encouragingly on the shoulder. "Doesn't matter, you're on the second round regardless," he remarked.

Walton watched several more jousts together with his family. All of the royal guards who attended the joust made it to the second round, as did the King's second son Prince Harlon, Ser Lyonel Vyrwel, Andrew. After all that Walton went off to prepare for his own performance at the squire melee, which would be the final event of the first day.

"Can't believe the King himself will be there to watch us fight," Ryam spoke with a wide grin on his face as they sat together on a pavilion, putting on their gear. "I'm trying to forget there is an audience at all," Walton replied with a queasy tone. "How many fighters were there again?"

"I think it was fifty… two?" Ryam responded with an uncertain tone, chuckling softly as Walton reacted with a slight wince. "Look at it this way, there's so many fighters that if you mess up no one will probably even notice," Ryam spoke calmly.

"My father will notice, your father will notice," Walton argued sternly, and his friend let out a sigh. "I guess you're right," he said with shrug, and Walton looked at him with a frown. "How can you be so relaxed?" he asked with a slightly annoyed tone, and Ryam flashed him a grin. "It's just a tourney melee, my friend," he said confidently, tightening the straps of his armor. "No one is going to die, and before it's over I might even get a chance to give Ivar Vyrwel a good beating."

"Or he'll give you one," Walton pointed out unenthusiastically. He had done his fair share of training throughout his life, but he knew there were many boys of his age out there he would stand no chance against. _I fear Ivar is one of them._

Before Ryam could answer anything to Walton, they heard the trumpets calling the fighters. "Let's go," Ryam said with an eager smirk, pulling on his helmet and patting Walton on the shoulder as he stormed outside of the pavilion, and Walton quickly followed after him.

There was an hour or so to sundown as the fighters made their way to the tourney field. The fighters gathered on the tourney field, forming a large ring. On one side of the field was the tourney pavilion of the nobles, with the royal family seated on a platform above everyone else, and on the other side were the crowds of common folk. Walton's eyes wondered from King Greydon to his own family, and then the Tarly's. Finally, he spotted Genna Tarly, sitting beside Lord Symon with a sweet smile on her beautiful face. _Perhaps this could be my chance to impress her._

The King stood up, and the trumpets were blown to gather everyone's attention. "Lords, ladies, and the people of the Reach," Greydon begun with his powerful voice. "We've all come here not just to admire the skill of this land's many great knights, but to celebrate the glory of the Reach! There is no other kingdom so proud, so strong, so beautiful. And tonight, we will witness the young promises of the kingdom, who have come from everywhere from the North March to Oldtown to prove their worth. They are all protectors of tomorrow, but only one can be champion today!"

The people cheered loudly for the King's words, and Walton closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember the tips that Willam had given him earlier. He glanced at Ryam who standing on his right, clenching on to his mace. Ryam had tried to convince Walton to choose a mace for his weapon as well, but he had taken a blunted sword, because it was the weapon he had the most experience with.

The trumpets chimed, signaling the beginning of the melee. Walton immediately raised his shield and took a step back. However, the Caswell boy who had stood on his left charged forward instead of challenging Walton. He glance behind him, seeing that Ryam had begun a duel with a Cuy squire who looked about the same size as him.

With grunting, screams and clashing filling the air around him, Walton begun to carefully approach the center of the field, keeping his shield up. Then his eyes met with someone, a brown-haired boy slightly taller than him wearing the colors of House Hutcheson. The Hutcheson squire pointed his war hammer towards Walton, challenging him to a fight. With a gulp Walton nodded, and so his first opponent charged against him. He managed to block the first swing of the hammer with his shield, though it still threw him slightly off balance. To counter he swung his sword, mostly just to give himself time to find his footing again. However, the Hutcheson was in hurry to defeat him, and his next swing was aimed at Walton's legs. Swiftly Walton moved his right leg and dodged the hammer, leaving him in a forward leaning posture. Feeling like he had no other option, Walton rushed forward, dashing against his opponent shield first. Surprised by this, the Hutcheson took a few steps back under Walton's push, before swinging his hammer again. This time it hit Walton on his ribs, denting the armor and forcing him to back down.

Walton gasped at the pain he felt on his ribs, clenching his teeth together violently to bear it. The Hutcheson squire gave him no time to catch his breath, immediately charging for another strike. Walton barely managed to move his shield fast enough to deflect the hammer, and he could feel the impact on his arm even through the shield. Had it hit him, he would've been on the ground. Recognizing he was in a tight spot, Walton decided to do something aggressive. While the Hutcheson prepared for another swing of his hammer, Walton quickly stabbed him on his lower left leg. Even with a sharpened blade it wouldn't have done much damage, but it worked well enough to distract the Hutcheson for a moment, and Walton took that moment to leap closer to him. He moved specifically closer to the hammer, leaving the Hutcheson with less room to use it. As the Hutcheson tried to counter this by pushing Walton away with his shield, he managed to hack his sword on the hand that was holding the hammer. With a loud bark of pain the Hutcheson dropper his weapon, and Walton proceeded to move his blade against his neck.

"I yield," the Hutcheson grunted with a displeased tone, raising his hands up and beginning to walk away from the field. Walton let out a sigh of relief and allowed a satisfied smile to form on his face. Glancing around him, he saw around twenty fighters still on the field. He tried to see if Ryam was still there, but before he could find him he was interrupted. "Hey, Manderly," someone said with an aggressive tone behind him, and Walton turned around to see a squire that looked to be the same age as him, armed with a sword and wearing the colors of House Peake.

"Leo Peake," Walton spoke grimly, recognizing the boy as the grandson of Lord Lorimar Peake.

"I've heard your father is a traitorous snake," Leo said coldly, to which Walton frowned. "I _know_ your father is a traitorous snake," he responded sternly, to which Leo simply smirked. Then, without a warning he attacked. Walton parried the first strike with his sword, and immediately retaliated with an upward swing aimed at Leo's head, which he dodged. At first Walton was on the offensive, striking furiously from left and right, but failing to penetrate his opponent's defense. Then, Leo moved from defensive to offensive, forcing Walton to back down and hide behind his shield.

After a couple minutes of intense dueling, Leo suddenly halted. On his face a surprised expression, as he seemed to be looking behind Walton. _He is trying to trick me_ , Walton deduced, and resisted the urge to look behind him. However, Leo now completely lowered his guard, and the expression on his face turned from confused to frantic. "Ivar, don't-", he begun, but before Leo could finish the sentence Walton felt a heavy blow on the back of his head, knocking him out.


	16. Hagon III

**Hagon**

It was a clear and windy afternoon on the southwestern coast of Orkmont as the eighty ships that had set sail from the Great Wyk few days ago approached the harbor of Orkwatch, the old seat of House Hoare. Among those eighty were fourty-eight longships of House Hoare, twenty-two of House Goodbrother, and ten of House Farwynd. Prince Hagon Hoare stood at the prow of the Furious Wind, the flagship of the fleet.

The Prince gazed with awe at the hundreds of longships already anchored by the shore. Flying on their masts Hagon spotted banners of Drumm, Stonehouse, Tawney, Blacktyde and Orkwood, among others. However, he also noticed that half or more of all the ships flied the banners of House Harlaw or their vassals. On the other hand, no longships of House Greyjoy or their vassals had yet arrived.

"That's the largest fleet I've ever seen," Hagon said with a calm and impressed tone, and behind him his friend Quenton Farwynd chuckled. "No shit," he replied with a snarky tone. "How many fleets exactly _have_ you seen, my prince?"

"Shut up," Hagon shot back lazily, to which Quenton chuckled again. "This'll be quite the adventure, my friend," he said with a jovial tone, tapping Hagon on the shoulder.

After docking the ships at the beach, Prince Hagon and his crew approached the village beneath the castle that stood atop the cliffs to the east. Orkwatch was older and smaller than the Hoare Castle at Great Wyk, but it still looked quite strong and imposing up there watching over the harbor.

The village and the beach next to it were crowded with ironborn warriors from across the isles. They were drinking, singing, playing games, fighting and mingling with the local girls, hardly any of them paying any attention to Hagon and his crew as they walked past. Before they could reach the pathway leading up to the castle, Hagon saw a large bald man with bushy black beard approaching them, surrounded by half-a-dozen men.

"Is that your uncle?" Quenton asked with a raised eyebrow.

"He's my father's cousin, but yes, that is Lord Qarlton Hoare," Hagon confirmed calmly. A wide grin formed on Qarlton's face as he reached them. "Hagon, is that you?" he asked with a warm and rough voice, and as Hagon nodded he embraced him in a brief hug. "You've grown into a man, I see. It's been, what, four years?" Qarlton asked as they separated.

"I believe so, yes," Hagon answered with a thin smile. "And how have you been, Lord Qarlton?"

"Ah, I've got no reason to complain," Qarlton answered with a shrug. "I have a good family, lands to look after. I am content."

"You have no desire to raid?" Hagon asked with a smirk, to which Qarlton chuckled awkwardly. "I've had my fill of raiding long ago," he responded with a sigh. "I am old now, almost fifty, for fuck's sake. Can you believe it?"

"Well, it is starting to show, just a little," Hagon replied with a humorous tone, and Qarlton let out a hearty laughter. "Come now, there is ale and food at the great hall," he said cheerfully, and so they continued towards the castle. "I must say I'm surprised to see you here, Hagon," Qarlton stated as they approached the gates.

"How so?" Hagon asked curiously, and Qarlton hesitated a moment before answering. "I was led to believe you'd remain in charge of the Hoare Castle," he said, eyeing Hagon as he spoke.

"And you thought I'd agree to do that?" Hagon asked with a brazen smirk, which Qarlton reciprocated. "No chance, I will sail to war with my Ironborn brothers, no matter what my father has to say about it. And what of you Lord Qarlton, will you sail with us?"

"No, I'm afraid I'll remain here in Orkwatch," Qarlton responded as they walked through the gates. "However, my eldest son Harrick will captain one of my ships."

"Isn't your son too young for war?" Quenton joined the conversation, and Qarlton gave him a short glare before answering. "Harrick is fourteen, almost a man grown," he answered nonchalantly. "It's time he gets his blade bloodied."

"And his cock wet, aye?" Quenton quipped, to which Qarlton reacted with coarse laughter. "I leave that for him to decide!" he answered with a loud and humorous tone, and they all laughed.

Entering the great hall, Hagon saw the people there were divided between two long tables. At the end of one table was Lord Ulfric Harlaw, a portly man on his late forties with greasy brown hair and a thick mustache. At the end of the other table was Lord Roryn Drumm, a tall and lean man on his mid-forties with long black hair and a thick beard. Hagon knew these two to be perhaps the wealthiest lords on the Iron Isles, but what separated them was how they had reached such status. While Ulfric had made his wealth with trading, Roryn had paid the iron price for his riches.

"Men, welcome Prince Hagon Hoare, the second son of King Harmund!" Qarlton announced as they walked in, which was received with unenthusiastic cheers from both tables. Hagon couldn't blame them, these men were warriors, and he was still unproven in their eyes.

They sat down next to Lord Ulfric, whose warriors made room for them. "Prince Hagon," Ulfric greeted him with a small nod. "Lord Ulfric," he responded calmly.

"You were just a boy last time I saw you," the Harlaw lord continued, pouring ale for him. "Now it seems you are a man, and a warrior."

"Indeed," Hagon replied dryly, taking a first sip of his ale. "I couldn't help but notice as I arrived that you've brought an impressive amount of ships with you, Lord Harlaw."

"I do as my king commands," Ulfric responded with a thin smile. "Trade with the Westerland lords has made me rich, and much of that wealth I've used to bolster my fleet."

"But I've heard your ships don't sail to raid," Hagon pointed out sharply, and Ulfric nodded. "They do not," he confirmed, leaning back on his chair and taking a gulp of the ale. "Because there is no need for them to raid. Our ancestors raided the green lands out of necessity, they made themselves wealthy with the means available to them. I do the same thing; my means just happens to be trade."

"You sound a lot like my father," Hagon said with a small sigh, to which Ulfric chuckled softly. "I'm honored, my prince," he responded, raising his mug. "Your father is the greatest man I've ever known."

"Even greater than your famous father, Lord Bjorn the Furious?" Hagon asked with narrowed eyes, and Ulfric nodded. "Yes," he said nonchalantly, gulping his mug empty and then pouring in more ale. "My father was a great warrior, I do not deny that, but he was also a fool. He could not see that the world is changing and we need to change with it, or he simply couldn't accept it."

"So, Lord Harlaw, before you set sail here, did you happen to meet with Maron Merlyn?" Hagon changed the topic, and Ulfric nodded. "He arrived to Harlaw Hall the same day as King Harmund's raven," he said calmly. "Maron told me you refused to give him warriors to protect our settlements on Cape Kraken."

"That's not exactly true," Hagon replied with a subtle smirk. "I merely refused to _force_ any warriors to join him, I allowed volunteers to go. I take it you had a different approach to our mutual friend's request."

"Indeed, I gave a full crew of warriors for Maron," Ulfric said, a cold tone on his voice. "Cape Kraken is…"

"Very important for us, yes," Hagon cut off the Harlaw lord with a bored tone. He stood up from the table and turned his eyes towards the Drumm lord's table. "Nice chatting with you, Lord Harlaw," Hagon said nonchalantly, grabbed his mug and made his way towards the other table.

"Roryn the Reaver," Hagon said confidently as he approached the table, and the Drumm lord slowly turned his head to look at him. His long black hair was slicked back, and his thick beard was forked, with golden beads on both braided prongs. In his blue eyes was a sharp and attentive gaze, and a pale scar ran through his left cheek.

"Prince Hagon," Roryn Drumm responded with a strong and friendly tone, a grin forming on his face. "Take a seat," he said, gesturing at the chair next to him.

"I've heard a lot about you, Lord Drumm," Hagon said with a respectful nod as he sat down, to which Roryn reacted with a hearty laughter. "What do you think the boy has heard about me, Ralf?" He asked from the bald and grey-bearded warrior next to him.

"I don't know, perhaps he heard about how you puked on those Tyroshi whores," the man responded with a drunken grin, exposing his sparse line of teeth. Roryn laughed and nudged his friend lightly. "Don't believe this old bastard's lies," he said with a humorous tone. "I puked _next_ to the whores, not on them."

"What I've heard is that you've sailed and raided everywhere from the Stony Shore to Blackwater Bay," Hagon said with an awkward smile. "Well, I suppose that's true as well," Ralf said nonchalantly.

Roryn studied Hagon with his eyes for a moment, before speaking up. "I must admit I haven't heard much about you, Prince Hagon," he said, his voice quiet but confident. "However, I did hear recently that you met with the Shrike."

Hagon tensed up, turning his gaze down for a moment. _Word travels fast, it seems,_ he thought, turning his eyes up to look at Roryn. Then again, he had heard rumors that the Shrike often enjoyed the hospitability of the Drumm Castle. "I did meet him, yes," Hagon said with a subtle gulp, wondering how much exactly Roryn knew of their meeting.

"Good," Roryn simply said, tapping the prince on his shoulder in a friendly manner. "The Shrike is good man, a godly man."

"That much is true," Hagon agreed calmly. "However, he also seems to harbor resentment for my family."

"For your family, but not for you," Roryn remarked with a cold smirk. "Anyway, let's lighten up the mood a little," he said, climbing to stand on his chair. "Brothers, let's sing a little song, shall we?" Roryn Drumm asked loudly, and the people on the table cheered and raised their mugs.

" _Together we sail for the glory and riches!_ " Roryn started singing with a boisterous tone. " _Hey-ho, all aboard!_ " the crowd responded loudly. " _Grab your shields, boys, we're sailing for war,_ " they sang together, " _to reave and raid the green land's shores!_ "

Roryn threw the ale on his mug to air as he sang, some of it raining down on Hagon. " _Steel rain, oh steel rain!"_ the warriors kept singing while Roryn stepped down from his chair. " _Hey-ho, all aboard! The Ironmen sail through the storming seas, to reave and raid the green land's shores!"_

"Not familiar with the song, aye?" Roryn asked from Hagon who had not joined in, while the rest kept on singing. "I was never taught any reaving songs, mylord," Hagon answered with a thin smile.

"It's never too late to learn, my friend," Roryn responded with a wolfish grin, pouring more ale for both of them. And that's how the rest of the evening went, with drinking and singing.

It was almost noon when Hagon finally got up from his bed the next day. It was the clashing of steel echoing from the courtyard that woke him up. His memories from last night were hazy at best, and his head was aching. Slowly Hagon walked to the window of his room, from where he could see down to the courtyard. There he saw a black-haired young lad, carrying sword and shield. _Qarlton's son Harrick no doubt,_ Hagon deduced, shifting his eyes to the man Harrick was sparring with. Except, it wasn't a man at all, but rather a pale and dark-haired woman, about the same height as Harrick. Hagon watched her with great interest, noticing quickly that she was quite skilled with the sword.

Suddenly the door of the room was knocked on, shifting Hagon's attention back inside. "Hagon!" the voice of Quenton Farwynd shouted behind the door. As Hagon didn't bother to answer, his friend pushed the door open himself. "Finally out of bed, aye?" he spoke with a chastising tone, and Hagon flashed him a lazy smirk.

"I see I'm not the only one who woke up with a headache," he responded, his voice raspier than he had expected.

"You got way too drunk last night," Quenton scolded sternly, and Hagon let out a stifled chuckle. "Are you my mother now, Farwynd?" he asked sharply, and his friend let out a deep sigh. "In case you don't recall, by the end of the night you were standing on the table, proclaiming for the whole hall that you're going to be their king," Quenton explained, keeping his voice low but intense. Hagon rolled his eyes and turned back towards the window. "I was drunk, everyone was drunk. It meant nothing," he said quietly, immediately hearing Quenton's bridling behind him. "Maybe I'd be inclined to believe you, friend, if it wasn't for what you told me back at Great Wyk," he spoke with a serious tone, and Hagon nodded.

"Exactly," he said calmly, turning to look at Quenton again. "I told _you_. These people, they don't know, to them it was just the ale speaking."

Quenton stepped closer to Hagon, staring him to the eyes. "I've got your back, Hagon," he stated with a sincere tone, narrowing his eyes. "But for fuck's sake, try to be a bit more discreet." With these words Quenton stormed out of the room.

After washing his face and eating breakfast, Hagon made his way out to the courtyard. It was filled with people, but Hagon quickly spotted Harrick and the dark-haired woman again. They were done with training it seemed, and now approaching the armory. Hagon followed them there, stopping to lean on the stone wall next to the door. Harrick was the first to step out, looking tired and sweaty from the training.

"Prince Hagon," he said with a surprised tone as he noticed him, hastily giving him a small bow. "Nice to see you, Harrick," Hagon responded dryly, forcing a thin smile to his face. "Your father told me you'll be captaining one of his ships as we sail to war."

"I will indeed," Harrick responded, a slightly nervous tone on his voice. Before Hagon could respond, the woman stepped out of the armory. There was something striking about her, a kind of wild beauty, with sharp and well-defined features. "Prince," she spoke unenthusiastically, a sharp look in her brown eyes.

"And who might you be, mylady?" Hagon responded smoothly. The woman gave Harrick a short glance, and with a nod the boy turned and walked away. "I am Karin Orkwood, your highness," she then said with a cold tone.

"Just call me Hagon," the prince replied with a smirk. "And what are you to him, Lady Karin?" Hagon asked, nodding towards the distancing back of Harrick Hoare. "I am his father's bodyguard," Karin answered with a relaxed tone. "To him I am a teacher, I suppose."

"I watched your sparring, you're quite skilled," Hagon complimented, and Karin smiled thinly. "Tell me, prince, are you trying to get me to your bed?" she asked bluntly, to which Hagon reacted with a surprised chuckle. "Perhaps you're being a bit hasty there, mylady," he responded with a playful tone, though Karin merely gave him a cold glare.

"Just wanted to let you know that such an attempt would be in vain," she said nonchalantly. "I am not some common wench you can woo by swinging your royal Hoare cock around. I'm the noble daughter of Lord Branston Orkwood, and if you want me, you're going to have to marry me."

Momentarily left speechless Hagon could only look at Karin with a dumbfounded expression on his face. She flashed him a cold smirk, before walking past him and heading towards the keep.

"Was that a proposal, mylady?" he yelled after her with a lighthearted tone, but she did not answer. _I take that as a yes._


	17. Gwynesse III

**Gwynesse**

Three days had passed since King Harmund had set sail from Casterly Rock, first to Fair Isle where the Farman fleet would join him, and from there back to the Iron Isles where they would join with the Ironborn fleet. However, Gwynesse Goodbrother had kept her promise to Prince Harmund the Handsome and stayed with him and the Lannister army.

A massive army of westermen had been amassing on the meadows north of Lannisport and east of Casterly Rock, and Gwynesse eyed it from atop a small hill to the north. Nearly ten thousand had already arrived, among them the levied troops of such noble houses as Reyne, Tarbeck, Westerling, Prester, Parren, Hamell, Sarsfield, Jast and Plumm, as well as hundreds of sellswords and freeriders. The forces of Banefort and Crakehall were expected to arrive any day, and even more would join them once the army would march to Deep Den. From there the full might of the Rock would head south, to Reach.

Gwynesse had learned from one of the books she had borrowed from Princess Lorena that the westermen had in the past often used the Ocean Road when attempting to conquer the Reach. However, as King Lancel undoubtedly knew, those attempts had always been curbed by the dutiful Marshalls of the Northmarch – the lords of House Osgrey. And since the Ironborn fleet would attack from the west regardless, marching the Lannister army to the eastern Reach would serve to further split King Gardener's defenses.

Gwynesse's thoughts were interrupted as she noticed Prince Harmund approaching her up the hill. "What are you thinking, dear?" he asked as he got closer, and she looked at him with a small smile. "This war," she answered softly. "How it might change Westeros," she added as Harmund arrived next to her.

"Hopefully for the better," the prince said with a small sigh, his eyes soaring over the hundreds of tents and pavilions on the field beneath them. "My hope is that our people, the Ironborn, will get good and fertile land from the Reach. Perhaps then there will be no more need for stealing and raiding, and they can all find the Faith."

Gwynesse studied the prince's face as he spoke, and the look on his eyes was sincere. Many Ironborn would find what he just said insulting, but Gwynesse could tell that Harmund truly wanted the best for everyone. "Perhaps," she said quietly. "Maybe… maybe you could teach me, about the Faith," she suggested with a subtle gulp, and Harmund gave her a surprised look.

"Oh, well, I'm not much of a teacher, or a septon for that matter," he said with a hesitant tone. "But I suppose I could teach you something. I assume you know the basics?"

"I know there are seven gods," Gwynesse said with an awkward chuckle. "Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, and then there is, uh…"

"Crone and the Stranger," Harmund concluded calmly. "And in truth there is just one god, with seven faces. Father is the face of justice, Mother is the face of mercy, Warrior is the face of courage, Smith is the face of strength, Maiden is the face of innocence, Crone is the face of wisdom, and Stranger is the face of death."

"If they are all faces of the same god, why should they be prayed to separately?" Gwynesse asked with a raised eyebrow. Harmund seemed stunned for a moment by this question, but after a couple seconds he let out a small laugh and smirked. "That is a good question, Gwynesse," he said with a lighthearted tone. "But think of it like this; a family is one, but you might ask something from your mother that you wouldn't ask from your father, or something from your brothers that you wouldn't ask from your mother."

"But my father, mother and brothers are not the same… person," Gwynesse remarked with an amused tone, and Harmund let out a sigh. "I suppose a septon could explain it better," he said with a grin.

"And how exactly do they know what the god or gods are like?" Gwynesse asked with narrowed eyes. "Have they met them?"

"They haven't, but they've read and studied the testimonies written by the Andals who did thousands of years ago," Harmund was quick to answer. "Hugor of the Hill, the first King of Andals, was crowned by the Father himself."

"And we should just… believe those old testimonies?" Gwynesse asked with a skeptical tone, and Harmund nodded. "Faith is the key," he stated calmly. "You must have faith in the Seven, and they will make themselves known to you as you pray to them."

"Faith," Gwynesse repeated quietly. She didn't know if she could force herself to have faith in the Seven, but for the sake of Harmund she would try. "I've heard your father used to say that there are eight gods, Drowned God being one of them," she brought up.

"That was heresy, and my father has renounced such claims long ago," Harmund responded calmly. "Now he simply sees the Drowned God as an aspect of the Stranger. Not exactly in line with the scriptures, but I can sympathize with my father's need for seeking a compromise between his two beliefs."

"And what about you, my prince?" Gwynesse asked with a slightly nervous tone, and Harmund gave her a questioning look. "What about me?" he asked calmly.

"Will you seek a compromise, when you inherit your father's crown?" She asked softly. For a couple of seconds Harmund just looked at her, and Gwynesse could not read the emotion from his eyes. "My hope is that by the time I take my father's place, there will be no need for a compromise," the prince finally spoke, a clear and earnest tone on his voice. "That our people will have accepted the Seven in their hearts and renounced their old sinful ways."

"I hope you'll forgive me for speaking plainly, my prince, but I don't think what you hope for is very likely to come true," Gwynesse spoke with a delicate tone, hoping not to insult Harmund, and to her surprise the prince smiled. "I thank you for your honesty, my lady," he said smoothly, softly grasping her hand. "And you're correct, it is unlikely that the Ironborn will embrace the Faith of the Seven on their own. They will need someone to guide them, to show them the light, and I am prepared to take that role."

Gwynesse moved closer to Harmund, taking his other hand and looking into his eyes. The hopefulness and determination in his dark eyes was captivating, enchanting even. "I pray you will succeed," Gwynesse whispered, before pulling the Hoare prince into a passionate kiss.

A horn sounded somewhere in the distance, most likely signaling more troops joining the army. Slowly Gwynesse and Harmund separated from their kiss and turned their eyes to south, and indeed, a sizeable force could be seen approaching from afar. Thousands of soldiers, marching under brown banners.

"The Crakehalls," Harmund said with a small smirk. "Come, we should join Tymond and Tywell in welcoming them."

They hurried down from the hill and joined the Lannister princes and lords Reyne, Tarbeck and Westerling at the center of the camp. Lord Regenard Reyne was a tall, broad and stocky man on his early forties, with red face, dark hair and large mutton chops. He certainly looked like a warrior, unlike his son and heir Ramsay who stood beside him. He was boyishly handsome and had a confident smirk on his face, but Gwynesse had to wonder if he even had the strength to carry a shield. Lord Alfred Tarbeck on the other hand was a fat and balding man on his early fifties, looking more like a merchant than a warrior in his blue velvet doublet. And lastly there was Lord Edwyn Westerling, a lean and ordinary looking man on his mid-forties, the most outstanding feature of his looks being his luscious golden hair, which he had pulled back into a knot behind his head.

"There he comes," Prince Tywell said with a grin on his face as the man leading the Crakehall troops approached them atop his white horse. He was a young and handsome man, no more than twenty-five, with long brown hair and a patch of beard on his chin. The young knight descended from his horse, and fell on his knee in front of the Lannisters. Tywell grabbed the man's arm and pulled him up, embracing him in a brotherly hug. "It's good to see you, Ser Aubrey!" he said, tapping his friend on the back.

"Likewise, my prince," Aubrey Crakehall responded with a polite tone as they separated.

"And are you the sole commander of these troops that march with you, ser?" Prince Tymond asked sternly, and the Crakehall knight turned his green eyes towards the older of the Lannister princes. "Yes, my prince," he responded with a respectful nod. "My father knows that from his two sons, I am the warrior."

"And why would Lord Anders not lead his troops personally?" Tymond inquired sharply.

"My lord father wishes to remain in charge of Crakehall, for he fears this war may entice Reachmen to attack our lands," Ser Aubrey responded calmly.

"Understandable," Prince Tywell was quick to say, giving a meaningful glance at his father. "He has done his duty by sending these men, and you to lead them."

"How many men do you bring, ser?" Lord Tarbeck asked with a curious tone. "Two thousand, more than hundred of them on horseback," Ser Aubrey answered with a confident grin.

"A considerable force," Harmund commented with a relaxed tone, shifting Ser Aubrey's attention towards him. "Ah, Prince Harmund, you're here as well," he said with a wide grin, approaching him and putting his right hand on Harmund's shoulder. "It's been years."

"Indeed," Harmund replied with a friendly tone. "Who would've guessed we'd meet again in such circumstances."

"In all honesty, I'm surprised it took this long for King Lancel to do this," Aubrey said with a humorous tone, slowly turning his eyes to Gwynesse. "Mylady," he greeted her with a polite tone.

"I am Gwynesse, of House Goodbrother," she introduced herself with a shy smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ser."

"Likewise," Aubrey replied with a small nod. "I take it you are Prince Harmund's betrothed?"

"A companion," Harmund corrected quickly, glancing at Gwynesse. "Though I suppose anything is possible," he added with an awkward chuckle.

"I see," Aubrey said with a smirk, turning towards the Lannister princes again. "I wonder, where is King Lancel?" he asked with a calm and polite tone.

"The King will join us once the Baneforts arrive," Prince Tymond answered. "For now, make yourself and your men comfortable, Ser Aubrey."

"I shall do that, my prince. Now excuse me, I am in need of rest," the Crakehall knight said with a relaxed tone. He bowed once more for the Lannisters, and as he walked back towards his horse he glanced at Gwynesse again, their eyes meeting for a moment.

"He's your friend?" Gwynesse asked quietly from Harmund, as they watched Aubrey leading his horse to the other direction.

"Yes," Harmund confirmed with a small smile. "A good friend."

The Baneforts arrived the next day, led by the elderly Lord Monfryd, who was also the father-in-law of Prince Tymond. King Lancel then made his way to the camp to greet his bannermen, and a great feast was held outside that evening. The long table of the king was in the middle, around it hundreds of smaller tables for the troops and the camp followers. No doubt half the prostitutes of Lannisport had found their way into the camp, and Gwynesse could hardly blame them. Men heading to war were more eager than most to lay with women, as well as to part with their coin.

Gwynesse sat between Prince Harmund and Lord Regenard Reyne, and directly opposed to them were Prince Tywell, Ser Aubrey and Lord Edwyn Westerling. They were just a few seats apart from the King, who was sitting with his son Tymond, as well as lords Tarbeck and Banefort.

"Tell me, Prince Harmund, can we trust your father to do his part?" Regenard asked sternly, and Harmund gave the Reyne lord a polite nod. "King Harmund is a man of his word, mylord," he said calmly. "You can trust him."

"Harmund is like a son to King Lancel, he would never betray us," Prince Tywell remarked as well, and Regenard nodded with a seemingly satisfied expression on his face. "And what of his vassals?" Edwyn Westerling asked, his tone calm but sharp. "I suspect many of the Ironborn lords may be less comfortable with this alliance than their king."

"They would not miss the opportunity to raid the Reach," Gwynesse joined the conversation. "It is true many of them have no love for King Lancel, some don't even have love for King Harmund. However, they all have a love for wealth, and more so for wealth taken with swords and axes."

"Ah, the iron price, as I believe your people call it," Edwyn replied, a thin smile on his face, and Gwynesse gave him a nod.

"The promise of plunder is what will inspire most of them to sail with my father, Lady Gwynesse is right about that," Harmund spoke calmly, sipping his ale. "However, I believe it is the lands that we will conquer that will be most beneficial to our people in the long run."

" _If_ any lands will be conquered, my prince," Ser Aubrey inserted himself into the conversation, shifting all of their attention to him. "I don't mean to sow doubt into your hearts, my lords, lady. However, before speaking of the benefits of victory, the war should first be won."

"Of course, you are right Aubrey," Harmund agreed, though clearly somewhat begrudgingly. "The war must be won, and the enemy is not one to be underestimated."

Soon King Lancel stood up from his seat and climbed atop the table, a beautiful sword on his hand. Quickly everyone else stood up as well, to honor the King. "People of the Rock, from Banefort to Crakehall, it warms my heart to see all of you here!" He begun his speech, and the troops cheered and banged their mugs against the tables for him. "Ahead lies a long march, and many battles. Blood will be spilled, and many will fall, but have no doubt, in the end we will prevail! For glory, for the gods, and for the Rock!" The King ended his short speech by raising his sword towards the starry night sky. Monfryd Banefort immediately raised his fist and yelled, "Long live the King!"

"Long live the King!" Regenard Reyne joined him, and soon the whole camp was chanting it. "Long live the King! Long live the King! Long live the King!"

After a couple hours of feasting and drinking, Gwynesse felt the need to go for a leak. "Excuse me," she said politely as she stood up and walked away from the tables. She headed towards the eastern edge of the camp, where there were some trees and bushes.

After taking a piss Gwynesse made her way back to the camp. However, before she could get even close to the tables, she saw Aubrey Crakehall in front of her. Standing there in the moonlight, tall and proud, with a confident smile on his face, Gwynesse had to admit that he looked quite attractive. "Lady Gwynesse," he greeted her with a polite tone as they approached each other.

"Did you follow me here, Ser Aubrey?" Gwynesse asked, narrowing her eyes as she glared at the Crakehall knight.

"No, mylady," Aubrey responded, his lips forming a playful smirk. "I simply needed to take a piss as well. That said, now that we're both here, there is something I'd like to ask from you, mylady."

"Ask away, ser," Gwynesse replied calmly, and the knight took a step closer to her. "Harmund was… somewhat unclear, earlier, when I asked about his relation to you," he said, carefully studying Gwynesse's face with his eyes as he spoke. "So, I was wondering if you could clear this up for me. What are you to him?"

"A friend, for now at least," Gwynesse answered with a subtle gulp. "Though my father wishes me to wed him. And we have already… shared a bed."

"I see," Aubrey replied with a small chuckle, turning his gaze down for a moment. "For all his talk of the Faith, Harmund did always have a weakness for pretty girls."

Gwynesse was slightly taken aback by this comment. "You mean to say he's had many… affairs?" she asked, keeping her voice nonchalant.

"I didn't mean to upset you, mylady," Aubrey was quick to say, his tone sincere. "But yes, when we were younger and Harmund would come visit the Rock, he had a habit of bedding every pretty wench he came across. I wouldn't be surprised if there are a couple black-eyed bastards of his on the streets of Lannisport. All of that was years ago though, he may have changed since then."

"Why are you so interested in what is between me and Harmund anyway?" Gwynesse asked sharply, and with a charming smile on his face Aubrey took another step closer to her. "I was merely wondering if I'd break my good friend's heart were I to steal yours," he answered smoothly, and for a couple seconds Gwynesse was left without words. "And what makes you think you could steal my heart, ser?" She finally asked tensely, perhaps trying too hard to sound like she had no interest in him whatsoever.

"Tell me, do you love Harmund?" Aubrey asked with a serious tone, ignoring her question. "I… I think so, yes," Gwynesse answered hesitantly.

"And does he love you?" Aubrey followed up immediately. "I don't know," Gwynesse answered truthfully, letting out a small sigh. "But I would like to think that he does."

"In that case, I will not come between the two of you," Aubrey said softly, tapping Gwynesse lightly on her shoulder. "Now excuse me, I have a piss to take," he said with a lighthearted tone, walking past Gwynesse.

She turned to look at him once more, glaring at his distancing back as he walked out of the camp to the bushes. _I'm not sure what to think of him._


	18. Lyonel IV

**Lyonel**

Their second day on the road since leaving Castlewood was nearing its end, as Lyonel Bracken and his squire Axel Rivers came across an inn built into a fork in the road. One road turned towards south, and the other continued west towards Stoney Sept.

"We'll rest here," Lyonel said calmly, and his squire nodded. They hitched their horses and made their way inside. Unsurprisingly, the taproom was crowded with Poor Fellows. Lyonel and Axel made their way quietly to one of the tables and ordered food and ale.

"Lyonel…," Axel started, but Lyonel immediately cut him off. "Leo," he corrected the boy sternly and quietly. "I am Ser Leo of Duskendale, and you are my squire Alan. Remember it."

"I will, ser," Axel said with a submissive tone. They were on a mission to spy the enemy, and there would be no room for errors. Lyonel had even shaved his beard and trimmed his hair shorter, as unlikely as it was that anyone would recognize him in Stoney Sept. "What I was about to ask, ser, is why are you unmarried?" Axel spoke up again, and Lyonel gave him a mildly baffled look.

"I did not expect such a question from you, boy," he responded calmly, and Axel turned his gaze down with some embarrassment. "I don't mean to be rude, ser," he said with a sigh. "I'm merely curious. I know I haven't known you for long, but you seem like a good man, and of noble blood. Surely you could find a good woman to wed."

Lyonel rook in a deep breath before responding, glancing around himself to make sure no one was listening to their conversation. "I've sworn my sword and my life to serve Lord Brydan," he spoke nonchalantly.

"And he won't let you marry?" Axel asked with a raised eyebrow. "I'm sure he would, if I asked," Lyonel replied sharply. "But I will not. I had my love long ago, before the last war. Now, I live to serve."

"Sounds dull," the boy commented, but Lyonel shook his head. "There is honor in serving someone you believe in," he said sincerely.

"I'll take your word for it, Ser Leo," Axel replied quietly, a small smirk on his face.

Next day they continued their ride towards Stoney Sept, and the lightly forested terrain turned into open plains and rolling hills. Colorful flowers bloomed on the verdant fields, Blackwater Rush glimmered under the sun, and peaceful little villages dotted the land. Lyonel had to admit it was a beautiful piece of country, almost beautiful enough to distract him from the danger they were heading into.

Shortly after noon they reached the town of Stoney Sept, built on a hill that raised in a meander of the river. It was smart place to build a town, being protected by the river from three directions. In sharp contrast to the peaceful lands they had rode through, next to Stoney Sept was a military camp, large enough for several hundred men. Banners with the seven-pointed star could be seen, as expected, but also banners of House Keath and Vance of Atranta. The latter was especially disappointing for Lyonel, as he had fought beside Lord Randyll Vance against the Teagues. _I'm sure Randyll would be disappointed with his son's actions as well._

Calmly they rode past the military camp to the northern gates of the town, guarded by half-a-dozen Poor Fellows. "Dismount your horses," one of them immediately commanded, holding a mace in his right hand. He was an older man, with thick grey mustache and wrinkly face. He squinted his eyes as he glared at Lyonel and Axel, clearly having some problems with his vision. Lyonel gave a small nod to his squire, and they stepped down from their horses.

"Afternoon, good man," Lyonel greeted the old man with a smile. "I'm Ser Leo of Duskendale, this is my squire Alan. We're here for the cause."

"If you wish to pledge your sword, you should look for Ser Helman Keath there at the camp," the old man said, gesturing towards the camp behind him. "I see," Lyonel replied calmly, glancing behind him quickly. "However, I am not here just for myself, you see. I was sent by my master in Duskendale, to meet King Lucifer."

The old man frowned, eyeing Lyonel with some interest. "What did you say your name was, again?" he asked tensely.

"Ser Leo of Duskendale," Lyonel repeated with a polite tone. "I serve Lord Darke," he added, pulling from his satchel the letter that Maester Bennis had fabricated back in Castlewood.

"I'm afraid I can't read, good ser," the old man said, cracking a small smirk for the first time. Then he turned towards the other Poor Fellows behind him. "Tom, fetch one of the Swords, will you," he commanded one of the younger lads. "Tell him there's a messenger from Duskendale!"

"Thank you, good man," Lyonel said with a respectful nod, which the old man reciprocated. "I'm Omer, ser," he introduced himself with a relaxed and friendly tone. "Or Omer the Old as these younger bastards now call me. Bunch of ingrates, I say. I served King Humfrey in the last war, few of 'em can say the same. What about you, ser?"

"Oh, I didn't fight in the last war, I'm afraid," Lyonel responded calmly. "I was but a young boy on the streets of Duskendale back then."

"I heard them Duskendale fellows sacked Harroway towards the end of the war, raping and killing innocent folks there," Omer said grimly, carefully studying Lyonel's face. "You weren't with them, were you?"

"No, I wasn't, thank the gods," Lyonel answered, and there was no lie required. He had had no part in Lord Renly Darklyn's atrocious acts in Harroway. "Good," Omer muttered with a nod. "What they did was despicable. I'd expect something like that from the faithless bastards of Raventree Hall, but not from folk who are supposed to live in the light of the Seven. Then again, the Darklyns have bowed for the bloody Storm Kings since before I was born."

"Perhaps that will change before you die," Lyonel said calmly, and a wide grin formed on Omer's face, baring his yellow teeth. "Now that's what I like to hear, ser," he said, tapping Lyonel lightly on the shoulder. _I know,_ Lyonel thought, smiling thinly.

"Omer," a male voice called from inside the town, and they turned to see a knight of the Warrior's Sons approaching them, beside him the young Poor Fellow named Tom. "I was told there's a messenger from Duskendale."

"That would be me, ser," Lyonel confirmed with a nod, glancing at Axel. "I'm Ser Leo of Duskendale, and this is my squire, Alan."

"Afternoon, ser," Axel said to the knight with a small bow.

"I'm Ser Renfred Sarwyck," the man introduced himself with a polite tone. He was a tall and handsome man with long dirty blonde hair and a clean-shaven chiseled jawline. If Lyonel was to guess, he'd say Ser Renfred was on his early thirties. "Apparently you brought a message with you, Ser Leo."

"I did," Lyonel said, handing the letter to Ser Renfred. "A word from my master, Lord Damion Darke."

"I see," Renfred said as he eyed the letter. Without breaking the seal, he put it in his satchel. "I will take this to my commander, but for now, let me take you to the chapterhouse. We can talk more there. Omer, take their horses to the stables, please."

"It'll be done, ser," the old man responded with a bow, then turning to face Lyonel again. "Seven blessings to you, ser," he said with a respectful tone, and Lyonel gave him a small nod. "To you as well, friend," he replied thinly, and then followed after Ser Renfred through the gates and into the cobbled streets of Stoney Sept. The old and grand sept itself stood atop the hill, looming above the pretty town around it.

"You have a long ride behind you, I'm sure you'll need some rest," Ser Renfred spoke with a relaxed tone as they approached the market square of the town.

"Aye, we've been on the road for little over a week," Lyonel replied calmly. "However, I should say we did get a good night of rest on that local inn. Little food and ale would do no harm though."

"It'll be arranged, ser," Renfred said with a smile on his face as they walked past the fountain on the middle of the square, shaped like a leaping trout. "You said you serve Lord Darke, right?" the rainbow-cloaked knight asked nonchalantly.

"Yes, Lord Damion Darke," Lyonel confirmed tensely, starting to feel anxious about all these men of the Faith Militant roaming the streets around them. "He is very different from Lord Renly Darklyn, I can assure you that. And he would like to see the Faith Militant reclaim its chapterhouse in Duskendale."

"He is a good man, then," Renfred said, leading them to the main street heading up towards the sept. By the feet of the sept and on the left side of the street was a sturdy square holdfast built from grey stone. On the right side of the street on the other hand was a large round white building with tall colorful windows and seven flying buttresses. _The chapterhouse,_ Lyonel deduced.

The chapterhouse was surrounded by seven feet tall walls, and the gates to the courtyard were guarded by two knights of the Warrior's Sons. Lyonel and Axel were required to leave their weapons for them as they entered. Renfred led them inside the chapterhouse, which was a large open hall with a large red seven-pointed star painted on its stone floor.

"This is where we have our meetings," Renfred explained, his voice echoing slightly on the hall. "Wait here, I will fetch my commander, Ser Harrold Hill. He should be at the barracks."

"We'll wait," Lyonel responded with a stilted tone, hardly able to hide the anger hearing that name caused in him. Harrold Hill was the man who had slain Lord Roderick Blackwood sixteen years ago, and with a cowardice strike from behind, no less.

As Ser Renfred walked out of the hall, Axel turned to Lyonel. "Are you sure they believe us?" he whispered, and Lyonel simply gave him a nod. So far everything had gone well enough, but they would have to be careful.

After a minute or two of waiting, Ser Harrold Hill finally entered the hall. He was a big and sturdy man, and the stern look on his scarred face gave him a threatening presence. "Ser Leo of Duskendale, huh?" he spoke with a dry and surly tone, scanning Lyonel from head to toes with his glare. "Never heard of you."

"I am no one important, ser," Lyonel responded with a respectful nod. "I merely bring an important message."

"Haven't read it yet," Harrold stated bluntly. "But from what Renfred told me I gathered you've been sent by Lord Damion Darke. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Lyonel answered calmly. Harrold took a few steps closer to him and frowned, staring him intensely to the eyes. "Very interesting," he said quietly, a distinct suspicion in his words. "We attempted to create connections to Duskendale years ago, your lord didn't show any interest in cooperation back then. What has changed?"

"Everything has changed," Lyonel responded with a nervous smirk. "King Arlan is dead, and even more importantly there is a new Justman king. Or so my master has heard, and he sent me here to find out if there is any truth to that. You see, Lord Darke may be willing to give his support to a rightful King of the Rivers and Hills, but he will only do it if that king is flesh and blood and not empty rumors."

"So, your master sent you here to spy on us?" Harrold asked sharply, and Lyonel quickly shook his head. "To gain information, so he can make an educated decision on whether to support your cause or not. Surely, I wouldn't be so open with my intentions if I was a spy, would I?"

"That remains to be seen, Ser Leo of Duskendale," Harrold replied, his tone stern but calm. "I will read your message and relay it to King Lucifer. If he is interested, you will be invited to meet him." With these words Ser Harrold turned his back on Lyonel and Axel and started to walk towards the door her had come in from.

"Will we be given food and place to rest, ser?" Lyonel yelled after him, and the bald man stopped by the door for just a second. "Wait here for Ser Renfred," he answered with a disinterested tone and continued out without even giving them a glance.

"Well, he wasn't very polite," Axel stated with a nervous chuckle as the door closed, to which Lyonel responded with a small nod, a thin smirk on his lips. "Clearly a man of action rather than words."

The door was then opened again, this time by Ser Renfred Sarwyck. "Follow me, ser," he said politely. Lyonel and Axel followed the man out into the courtyard between the chapterhouse and its barracks, where half-a-dozen knights of the order were in middle of an intense training session. An older knight with balding head and frizzy black beard barked orders at the younger knights as they did push-ups on the dusty ground. Meanwhile Ser Harrold Hill quietly observed the training from a balcony above the barracks, a stern expression on his face.

Renfred led them to the mess hall next to the barracks, where a couple dozen Warrior's Sons were currently dining. Lyonel and Axel garnered some curious looks from these knights, but nothing more. They were given bowls of stew and mugs of ale, and so they sat down to dine with Ser Renfred.

"It has been a delight seeing our cause grow stronger these past few months," Renfred spoke up as they begun eating. "Ser Harrold may seem unappreciative now, but if your master can truly give us back our chapterhouse in Duskendale, I'm sure even he will be beyond grateful to you for bringing us this offer."

"To be clear, my master cannot _give_ you anything but his support," Lyonel responded calmly. "Lord Renly Darklyn is still the prominent power in Duskendale, and he will not welcome you in with open arms. If you want your chapterhouse back, you must take it."

"Of course," Renfred agreed with a thin smile. "Right now our priority is to support King Lucifer in taking back the Riverlands from the Storm King's lackies. However, if and when we are successful in that, Duskendale will be the last haven of the Storm King's power north of Blackwater Rush. The Justmans once ruled the land from the Neck to Blackwater Bay, let us hope they will again."

"Yes, the Justmans," Lyonel spoke quietly, tapping his fingers lightly against the table. "Apologies, ser, I don't mean to question the legitimacy of this King Lucifer, but where exactly did you find him? I thought the Justmans had been extinct for centuries, the last ones killed by Qhored the Cruel."

"No need to apologize, ser, that is what all of us were taught growing up," Renfred responded with a slight smirk. "However, the truth is that King Bernarr the Second wasn't the last Justman. His sister exiled herself to Oldtown after her brother had been murdered by the Ironborn, and all this time a Justman line descended from her has lived there. They went by a different name of course, lived as mere peasants, but they never forgot their legacy. As for Lucifer, he was found by the High Septon himself from the streets of Oldtown, guided by a divine sign from the Seven."

 _So, the High Septon wishes to make some street rat from Oldtown his puppet king in the Riverlands,_ Lyonel deduced, veiling his anger with a forced smile. "Long may he reign," he said, raising his mug for a toast.

"Long may he reign," Renfred and Axel repeated the words and joined in his toast.

Aggressively Lyonel gulped down the rest of his ale. _May he rot in the deepest of the seven hells._


	19. Erich III

**Erich**

Erich Storm stood by the entrance of Storm's End's main keep, watching as his great-uncle Prince Barron Durrandon mounted his horse, preparing to leave together with Queen Dowager Shana and Princess Arya, as well as lords Buckler, Fell and Errol and their families.

It had been nearly a week since King Arlan's funeral, and majority of the noble guests had already left Storm's End to prepare and rally their troops for the coming war. Prince Barron however would head to Riverlands, and part of Erich wished he could follow him. After all, he had fought more than enough against the Dornishmen already, and defending Riverlands against the Faith Militant and the false Justman king seemed like a more worthy cause than attempting to conquer the Red Mountains once again. However, he had sworn his sword to King Ormund, and he would stay true to that oath.

"Prince Barron will handle the Riverlands just fine, lad," Ser Trystane Cole stated next to Erich, as if he had read his thoughts. "We have a glorious conquest ahead of us in Dorne."

"Are you sure?" Erich asked quietly, glancing at his old friend from the corner of his eyes. "You were there six years ago, you know the Dornishmen wont yield easily."

The old knight smirked at Erich's words, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Easily? No, of course not. But even the hardest foe cannot withstand the fury of Stormlanders forever. This time we will be victorious."

Erich nodded to Trystane, seeing no use in arguing with him about this. Perhaps he wasn't quite as optimistic, but he still wanted them to succeed just as much. _With the fleet attacking from the east, perhaps this time will indeed be different._

"Erich," the voice of his mother called behind him, and he turned to see Princess Marleina standing by the doors of the keep. She looked tired, as she often did these days, but in her eyes was urgency. "What is it, mother?" Erich asked as he approached her, a bemused tone on his voice. Lord Robert had left for Griffin's Roost two days ago, Erich would've expected his mother to be relieved for being rid of him and back in her childhood home, yet she looked distressed.

"We need to talk," Marleina said with a subtle gulp, her hand shaking slightly as she grabbed onto Erich's left arm. "Come now," she urged him, ignoring his irritated gaze. Begrudgingly Erich followed his mother, who led them to an empty council room next to the great hall.

"Alright, you clearly don't want people to hear whatever you're about to say to me," Erich stated with a mildly amused tone as Marleina closed the door behind them, and she shot him with a sharp glare. "You do not need to go to war," she then blurted out.

At first Erich didn't say anything, but after seeing the dead serious look on Marleina's eyes he let out a dry chuckle. "You wanted me to serve Ormund," he sharply reminded her. "What, did you expect that being a knight of the Storm King would not include fighting in his wars?"

"Well I bloody well didn't expect my brother to do something this reckless," Marleina retorted with a frustrated tone. She stepped closer to Erich again, now grabbing his arms with both of her hands. "Please, Erich. You can stay here in Strom's End, there will need to be a garrison here even when the Storm King is absent."

Erich pulled himself free from his mother's clutches and shook his head. "You would have me dishonor myself," he hissed with an offended tone. "To hide behind the walls of Storm's End while my brethren march to war. And why? So you can try and make up for all the years of torment I went through in what was supposed to be my home."

Marleina looked genuinely hurt by his words, taking a couple faltering steps back as tears welled up in her eyes. She meant well, Erich knew it, but he had to close his heart to it. He was a man now, and he had to put his duties above these delusions of mending the scars left by his childhood. _Those scars are in my very essence, they cannot be healed._

"I'm sorry," Marleina sobbed with a defeated tone, collapsing on one of the chairs around the long table. "I don't know what I could've done differently, how I could've helped you more. I… I was too weak, I've always been too weak."

With a sigh Erich stepped closer to his mother. "You're not weak, mother," he assured calmly. "But you have to understand, I am not yours to protect anymore."

"You are a man of your own, I know," Marleina replied with a sigh, wiping the tears from her eyes and looking at Erich again. "You may not be mine to protect anymore, but I will never stop carrying this love and concern for you in my heart. You deserved better than the home I gave you, but you have to know that I always wanted your best."

"I know, mother," Erich said softly. "I know."

Another week went by, with the local knights and levied troops being mustered to Storm's End and preparing for a long march. It was a brisk and windy morning, and banners of Durrandon, Swygert, Musgood, Horpe and Cafferen flapped in the wind above the pavilions of the military camp erected on the fields north of the castle. For now it was a relatively small host, no more than a few thousand men strong, but in Blackhaven they would join with the forces of the Marcher Lords.

Erich was clad in a brand new black-and-gold plate armor forged in Storm's End, riding through the camp atop a strong and handsome black destrier named Whirlwind. Erich looked quite high and mighty in his new gear, as was to be expected from a knight of the Storm King. He dismounted his horse in front of the war council pavilion and marched in confidently.

Five men were sitting or standing around the council table as Erich entered the pavilion. Near the king's seat at the head of the table to the right was Lord Gregor Cafferen, clad in hauberk and a green tabard with the sigil of his house, leaning against the table with both of his hands curled into fists. He was a bald and portly man on his mid-fourties, with solemn blue eyes and a close-cropped dark beard peppered with grey. He also happened to be a brother-in-law of Lord Robert Connington.

A couple seats to the left from Lord Cafferen were sitting Ser Raymont Horpe and his younger brother Ser Ralph Horpe. Raymont was a handsome man with a striking smile that rarely left his well-defined and clean-shaven face, whereas his brother Ralph was a boorish and stern man with an unkempt brown beard and hair. They were both closing their forties, but Raymont looked at least slightly younger than he was, and Ralph looked significantly older than he was. Raymont was fittingly for a noble knight clad in shining plate armor with a white-and-grey cloak donned over it, while Ralph preferred a simple boiled leather armor and an undyed woolen cloak.

Near the other end of the table to the left were standing Lord Justin Musgood and Ser Simon Swygert. Lord Musgood was a short and average looking man on his early forties with a short auburn hair and beard. He was wearing a checkered blue-and-white surcoat over his hauberk and holding in his hands a sheathed bastard sword. Ser Simon Swygert on the other hand was a tall and lean man on his early thirties with an unassuming narrow face, curly brown hair and a wispy mustache. He was clad in a well-worn dark grey plate armor and a purple woolen cape with white trimmings donned on his shoulders.

"Ser Storm," Gregor Cafferen greeted Erich nonchalantly, to which he responded with a small nod. "Are we marching today, mylords?" he then asked from no one in particular.

"We're waiting for His Grace to come and tell us just that," Ser Ralph Horpe responded with a surly tone, which was followed by a brief moment of tense silence.

"A raven from Greenstone arrived late last night," Ser Simon Swygert then stated, breaking the silence. "News about the fleet?" Erich asked, and the Swygert knight nodded with a small smile. "Aye, all ships from Tarth have now arrived to Greenstone and the fleet is ready to sail as soon as they're commanded to do so."

"I don't envy those poor bastards on the ships," Justin Musgood said with a sober tone. "Sailing is bad enough as it is, but now it's almost autumn and the seas to the south and east are infested with pirates."

"And what kind of pirates exactly would dare attack a fleet of war galleys?" Ser Raymont Horpe asked amusedly, a wide grin on his face.

"Did you miss the part about it being almost autumn, ser?" Justin shot back sternly. "Autumn storms have scattered fleets before, and a stray war galley is as susceptible to pirates as any other lone ship."

"Oh, poor Lord Musgood has had nightmares about storms and pirates again," Raymont mocked, and a small smirk formed on his younger brother's face. Simon simply shook his head in a condescending manner and turned his eyes away from the Horpe brothers.

Before anyone else could speak up, King Ormund finally entered the pavilion. However, he didn't come alone. Beside him stood his eldest son, Prince Baldric Durrandon, clad in an armor he looked quite uncomfortable in. The crown prince was fifteen years old, still more a boy than a man grown. They all bowed to the King and his son, who then took their seats at the head of the table.

"My lords," Ormund spoke calmly, gesturing for them to sit down as well, and so they did. "I have decided to take my son and heir with me on this campaign," the King said, nodding towards Baldric. "One day he will be the Storm King, and it is time for him to see war with his own eyes. He has been tutored in the art of warfare and trained in combat from a young age, and whenever I am not personally present he will speak with my authority. Is this understood?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Lord Cafferen responded with a dutiful tone, and the rest of them mumbled something similar.

"Good then," Ormund said, his lips forming a thin smile. "We will begin our march to Blackhaven today. The war ahead of us will not be easily won, but at the end of it awaits a glorious triumph for our kingdom. This campaign will be long, and it will be winter before any of us see our homes again. Make sure your troops understand this, lords."

"Perhaps it would be better for their morale to concentrate on the glory and plunders of the war, Your Grace," Ser Raymont suggested, and King Ormund gave him a small nod. "Aye, you may remind them of that as well," he said calmly. "Now, go and give the commands to your troops."

With bows to the King the lords and knights hurried out of the pavilion. Erich was about to go as well, but Ormund spoke up before he made it out. "Not you."

"Your Grace?" Erich asked as he turned towards the Storm King. Ormund approached him, a calm and authoritative expression on his face. "I have a very specific task in mind for you, Ser Erich," he said, glancing at Prince Baldric behind him. "In Blackhaven we will split our forces, one half marching down the Boneway and the other down the Prince's Pass. I will lead the forces in Boneway, my son will lead the forces in Prince's Pass. And you will serve as his bodyguard."

Erich glanced at the young prince with a raised eyebrow. He was surprised by this task, but gave King Ormund a dutiful nod nonetheless. "It would be an honor, Your Grace," he responded with a formal tone.

"You will shield him on the battlefield, but also in the war council," Ormund instructed sternly. "There will be several hardened and prideful lords marching with you to the Prince's Pass, and many of them may underestimate my son and think that they can assume command over him. You will keep them in line and remind them who is in charge, ser."

"As you wish, Your Grace, but…" Erich hesitated a moment, and Ormund narrowed his eyes. "But what?"

"But I am a bastard," he blurted out with an uncomfortable tone. "Some of these prideful lords may not put much worth on my words."

"I recall you telling me that you have a good reputation among the Marcher Lords," Ormund remarked with a sharp smirk. "Besides, you'll be speaking with authority given to you by the Storm King. I trust you will do fine, nephew." With these words the Storm King walked out of the pavilion, and his son followed quickly behind him.

After a day's march to the west the farmlands and plains around the Storm's End begun to turn into lush green forests. Then, after another day the terrain turned hilly and the woods were dominated by pines. And finally, after five days of marching the northernmost peaks of the Red Mountains could be seen in the distance. It was here that the forests gradually begun to make way for the open grasslands of the Dornish Marches.

At the end of the sixth day of marching the Storm King's army made camp next to Grandview, the seat of House Grandison. It was a small but stout stone keep, standing high on the foothills of the Red Mountains, built atop a cliff overlooking the lightly forested slopes and ridges to its north. The Grandison forces had already left, leaving only a small household garrison, which meant that the barracks of the castle could've housed a significant portion of the troops. However, they decided to avoid the hassle and the whole host remained camped outside the walls for the night. Even the Storm King himself merely made a brief visit in the castle to greet the Grandison family.

After enjoying a few ales with Ser Trystane Erich sat down outside on the grass next to his pavilion, just gazing at the glimmering stars and half moon on the clear night sky. As he was starting to think about going to sleep, suddenly Prince Baldric approached him.

"Would you mind having a little chat?" the young prince asked.

"You mean, right now?" Erich asked, and the prince gave him a nod. "Yes," he said with a small chuckle. "I'd like to learn to know a little better the man I'm going to depend upon to protect me on the battlefield."

"Sure, alright," Erich replied awkwardly, unsure what could he possibly have a conversation about with the prince that was nearly a decade younger than him.

Baldric sat down a few feet away from Erich, letting out a small sigh as he gazed at the starry sky. "You know, grandfather told me and Durwald about you once," he spoke with a calm tone. "He did?" Erich asked with a genuinely surprised tone, and the prince gave him another nod.

"He was teaching us that we shouldn't judge a man's honor solely based on the circumstances of his birth," Baldric explained. "He used you as an example of a bastard with honor."

"I am… deeply honored by that," Erich replied quietly, and it wasn't just empty words. He had always respected King Arlan, but to know he had had enough respect in return for him to use him as an example in teaching his grandsons about honor came as a complete surprise to Erich. Silence lingered between them for a moment, until Baldric spoke up again. "Would you be up for a little sparring match, ser?" he asked with a smirk. "I need to know that my bodyguard can handle a sword, after all," the prince added before Erich could even answer.

"Ah, sure," he then responded with a touch of uncertainty in his words. A sparring match should be harmless enough, but he was slightly concerned that he could accidentally harm the man he was supposed to protect. Nonetheless, they grabbed dulled training swords and moved to an even ground with enough space for swordplay.

"Don't hold back, ser. I'm well trained," Baldric warned Erich, who responded with a small nod. Then he charged forward, giving first an easy downward strike from right, which Prince Baldric parried effortlessly. He then countered with a surprising speed, and Erich only barely managed to dodge his thrust. Baldric didn't relent, now striking upward. Erich deflected the blade and quickly went for a counter, the flat of his sword lightly hitting the prince's upper right leg. Baldric reacted quickly, dashing Erich's blade away from him, and following it up with a quick swing that hit him on his right shoulder.

"Not bad," Erich quipped as he stepped backwards to make more space between them. Baldric nodded with a grin, before charging again. Their swords clashed against each other, again and again, neither being able to get past the other's defense. After a while Erich could feel sweat starting to run on his forehead as well as his heartbeat getting faster and faster. However, he could see that Baldric was starting to wear out as well, his blocks getting slightly sloppier and his movements heavier the longer they continued. Finally, in a desperate attempt to break Erich's defense the prince overcommitted to a heavy swing, and Erich seized on the opportunity by leaping closer to Baldric and tackling him to the ground. As he was on the ground, Erich kicked the sword off his hand, and placed the tip of his own sword on the prince's chest.

"Dead," Erich said with a triumphant smirk. For a moment the young prince's blue eyes were filled with fury, but then he let out a sigh and his expression softened. "Aye, you got me," he admitted.

"You didn't lie though, you are clearly well trained," Erich complimented as he offered his hand to pick Baldric back up. The prince grabbed his hand and pulled himself up, giving Erich a respectful nod.

"You'll make an adequate bodyguard, ser," he said and walked away.


	20. Ellyn II

**Ellyn**

It was quiet and dark. The only source of light were the beams of moonlight shining through the trees and the only sound the cracking of dry leaves as Ellyn Blackwood stepped on them with her bare feet. In fact, she was walking through the woods dressed in nothing but her nameday suit. She wasn't sure why she was here or where exactly she was heading, but she had to keep moving forward. From the corner of her eyes she could see dozens of pairs of eyes staring at her from the shadows, some of them filled with judgement and others with lust. She did not care, she had to keep moving forward.

After what felt like hours of walking Ellyn arrived at a clearing illuminated by the bright full moon. In the middle of the clearing stood a weirwood tree. However, it wasn't just any weirwood tree, but specifically the colossal dead heart tree of Raventree Hall. And indeed, on its dead white branches sat hundreds if not thousands of ravens, all of them creaking in choir as Ellyn approached the tree. "Mylady! Mylady! Mylady!" they all repeated in a shrill voice.

Ellyn fell on her knees in front of the tree, staring deep into its red eyes. "What is my destiny, old gods?" she asked. There was no answer, only a strong gust of wind that pushed her back up on her feet. "My queen! My queen! My queen!" the ravens now screamed.

Ellyn turned around, but the forest she had walked through before wasn't there anymore. Instead, what she saw was fields painted red by blood and filled with fallen soldiers as far as the eye could see. Walking past the corpses, Ellyn saw soldiers of the Faith Militant, but also soldiers clad in the colors of noble houses such as Durrandon, Blackwood, Bracken, Tully and many more. She recognized none of the faces, but they all seemed to stare at her with judgement in their dead eyes. Finally, Ellyn saw ahead of her a small hill, atop which was laying a single corpse. She climbed up the hill, and kneeled down next to the dead man, whose face had sunken into the muddy ground. Ellyn lifted the face up from the mud, and to her horror she recognized that it was her husband's.

With a gasp Ellyn woke up, laying in bed next to Lord Brydan. The dream begun to vanish from her mind, but the image of Brydan's dead face remained. Quietly Ellyn got up from the bed while her husband kept sleeping. She dressed up with haste and hurried down the stairs of the keep, making her way outside. It was early in the morning, the sun just barely beginning to rise. Ellyn saw just a couple guardsmen patrolling on the foggy inner courtyard. She ignored them and rushed into the godswood.

As she approached the weirwood tree, Ellyn noticed the old Amabel Wayn on her knees in front of the heart tree's face, clearly praying. For a moment Ellyn considered just turning around and making her way back to the bed next to her husband. However, then images from the dream began flashing through her mind again, and she decided she had to do this. Ellyn walked closer to the heart tree, and finally the elderly lady noticed her as well.

"Mylady Blackwood," Amabel spoke with a respectful and surprised tone, giving her a curtsey after standing up. "I'm usually the only one who comes here to pray at this time of day. Is everything alright, mylady?"

"Yes," Ellyn responded, but her tone wasn't very convincing. "I… had a dream. And in that dream I saw the heart tree," she said, nodding towards the carved face on the weirwood. Amabel narrowed her eyes in an intrigued manner. "Dreams are when we are closest to the gods, mylady," she said quietly, taking a step closer to her. "They can show us things about the world around, or even reveal us our own destiny."

"Then I hope my dream didn't come from the gods," Ellyn spoke weakly, staring into the red eyes of the weirwood. "Why?" Amabel asked carefully.

"Because I saw the death of my husband," Ellyn responded, her voice hollow and toneless. Amabel's eyes widened in shock. However, before she could say anything, the voice of Brydan called from the entrance of the godswood. "Ellyn, my dear!" he exclaimed with a relieved tone, approaching them with swift steps. "I woke up as you left the room with haste. What happened?"

Ellyn gulped, looking her lord and husband to the eyes and wondering what exactly she should say to him. "I… just had a nightmare," she ended up mumbling, turning her gaze down in embarrassment. Brydan was quick to embrace her in a hug. "You know you can talk to me about anything, Ellyn," he said with a quiet and reassuring tone, and Ellyn nodded wordlessly. As they separated, she forced a smile on her face. "It was nothing, just bad dreams."

Brydan was clearly convinced by Ellyn's words, even reciprocating her smile, but as she glanced at Amabel she could see the earlier shock still lingering in the old woman's eyes. _Of course she is shocked, she's a superstitious old hag,_ Ellyn reminded herself. _I should just forget about this dream and move on._

And so indeed Ellyn continued her day as if nothing had happened, trying her best not to think about the nightmare. After all, this was to be the day she would take part in Lord Brydan's council for the first time, which certainly demanded all her concentration.

"Ready?" Brydan asked with a small smile as they arrived to the door of the council room by noon. Ellyn nodded with a confident smile, and so Brydan pushed the door open and walked in. Ellyn followed in the footsteps of her husband, garnering some intrigued looks from the other members of the council. Nearest to the lord's seat was of course Ronas Blackwood, his arms crossed as he glared at Ellyn with narrowed eyes. A few seats to the left of him was Maester Joseth in his dark robes, a calm and dutiful expression on his gaunt old face. Directly opposed to the maester sat Raventree Hall's steward, Olyvar Chambers. He was a dull and unremarkable middle-aged man, better suited for accounting provisions and barking orders at the servants than making any meaningful decisions. Lastly, a couple seats to the left from the maester sat Ser Uthor Wayn, the elderly master-at-arms of the castle.

Brydan took his seat at the head of the table and Ellyn sat down next to him, directly opposed to Ronas. The lord's uncle kept glaring at her, but she decided to ignore him completely.

"In today's council we shall discuss several important messages that have arrived to Raventree Hall these past few days," Brydan started calmly, before turning his gaze to Ellyn. "However, before that, allow me to introduce you the newest member of the council – my wife, Lady Ellyn."

"Welcome to the council, mylady," Maester Joseth said with a respectful tone, and Olyvar muttered something similar.

"Mylord Brydan, as the Lord of Raventree Hall you are of course the head of this council and decide who are its members," Ronas spoke with a tense tone on his voice. "However, if I may ask, what merits exactly do you perceive Lady Ellyn to possess that have led you to give her a seat in this council?"

"She has given me sound advice, uncle," Brydan responded sternly. "It was her idea to demand lords Mallister, Harroway, Vance and Smallwood to come personally swear their fealty or be branded as traitors. And as you'll soon learn, that choice has proven itself to be fruitful. If that is all, I suggest we move on the matters we've actually come here to discuss about."

"By all means," Ronas conceded with a grumble.

"Maester Joseth, let's start with the message from Castlewood," Lord Brydan instructed, and the maester gave him a dutiful nod before pulling a scroll of parchment from his sleeve and clearing his throat. "Lord Armond Harlton informs us that together with Lords Cargyll, Chyttering and Byrch he has begun to muster an army to counter the threat of the Faith Militant in the southern Riverlands. As of now they are assembling in Castlewood, nine-hundred men strong at the moment of this writing. Lord Harlton asks if Lord Brydan has any direct commands for him."

"Nine-hundred men won't be enough to directly challenge the Faith Militant," Ser Uthor stated nonchalantly, leaning back on his chair. "I agree," Brydan replied with a nod, his gaze shifting to Ronas, and then to Ellyn.

"I say they should remain in Castlewood for now, and patrol the lands of House Harlton," Ronas suggested calmly, giving Ellyn a sharp glare. "I agree with Ronas," she said, which seemed to surprise him. "Whenever Prince Barron marches back north with whatever troops he can muster from the Stormlands, perhaps Lord Harlton could then join forces with him."

"Sounds like a solid plan," Brydan agreed with a nod. "Maester Joseth, you will send a raven with these instructions to Lord Harlton after this meeting."

"As you wish, mylord," the maester responded dutifully, as he pulled another scroll from his sleeve and cleared his throat again. "This one is a message from Storm's End," he started with a calm and formal tone. "Prince Barron informs us that he has not been successful in persuading King Ormund to march to Riverlands with the full might of his armies, due to the Storm King being preoccupied with marching against the Dornishmen. However, Prince Barron has been granted some troops from houses Fell, Buckler and Errol, and he plans to rally more troops from the houses of Blackwater Bay."

"Not quite the rescue we were hoping for," Olyvar muttered grimly.

"What in all the hells is King Ormund thinking," Ronas cursed with some frustration. "He marches to a pointless war in Dorne while his father's legacy here is under immediate threat. Clearly the man is not worthy of Arlan's crown."

"It is what it is," Brydan chimed in with a sigh. "We can make no demands to the Storm King, we can only do our part in protecting the Riverlands. Maester Joseth, send ravens to Duskendale, Rook's Rest, Stokeworth and Rosby, imploring their lords to join forces with Prince Barron."

"It will be done, mylord," Joseth responded, this time pulling two scrolls from his sleeve. "Lastly, two of the lords we demanded to come and swear their fealty to Brydan have responded. First, Lord Tommard Smallwood writes that he is unable to comply to our request, instead inviting Lord Brydan to Acorn Hall."

"He must take us for fools," Ronas commented with a snide tone.

"Obviously I will not accept his invitation," Brydan said with a dismissive hand-wave. "Joseth, send Tommard another raven, this time making it clear that until he pledges his loyalty to me in person he will be seen and treated as an enemy of Riverlands, House Blackwood and the Kingdom of Storm. Now, to the other message."

"Um, yes, from Lord Petyr Mallister," the maester clarified as he opened the other scroll. "Lord Mallister is rather brief in his message, but he promises to arrive here within a fortnight to pledge his fealty to Brydan."

"As I said, finally some results," Brydan said with a small smile, nodding towards Ellyn.

"We shouldn't be too quick to trust Lord Mallister," Ronas argued sternly. "He has shown little indication of his loyalty towards us or the Storm King so far, and I find this sudden change of heart strange. At best he simply wants to avoid taking a side for now."

"Which is better than him siding with our enemies," Ellyn remarked calmly, and begrudgingly Ronas nodded in agreement. "Yes, of course," he muttered. "However, even if Petyr does come and kneel to Brydan as he promises, we should still retain some suspicion towards him. He has little to no real bonds to our side, and plenty of old connections to the former Teague loyalists."

"Speaking of Teague loyalists, no word from Harroway?" Ser Uthor asked, and Maester Joseth shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Same goes for Lord Vance."

"I still hold out some hope that Lord Vance will remain loyal to us in case this conflict escalates, but I'm afraid Harroway is a lost cause," Brydan stated with a small sigh. "However, for now we should consider both of them potential enemies."

Suddenly the door of the council room was pushed open, and into the room rushed one of the household guards. "Mylord," the man spoke with a winded voice.

"What is it?" Brydan asked with a frown, and with a gulp the guardsman approached him. He whispered something to the lord's ear, and even though Ellyn was sitting right next to him he couldn't make out the words. Whatever the guardsman said made Brydan's eyes widen in shock and anger, and his face to turn pale. "Bring him here," Brydan simply instructed the guardsman, who gave him a dutiful nod and rushed out of the council room.

"Mylord, what is this?" Ronas asked with a confused tone, but Brydan remained silent and turned his eyes towards the door. After a few moments of tense silence the guardsman returned, this time with him an old knight. He was a tall and lean man with short grey hair and goatee, donned in the colors of House Shawney. He was clearly dirty and tired from the road, and on his face rested a dreary expression.

"Ser Emmon," Uthor exclaimed with a bewildered tone, which made Ellyn realize who exactly the knight was. This was Ser Emmon Shawney, the man who had been given the command of Fairmarket after the last war. _What is he doing here?_

"Mylords, mylady," Emmon greeted them with a dispirited tone. "I come from Fairmarket, and unfortunately I bring with me nothing but bad news. Fairmarket has been captured by the Faith Militant."

The Shawney knight's words were followed with shocked gasps and murmur from the council members. "How?" Brydan asked sternly, in his eyes the kind of anger Ellyn had never seen from him before.

"It started nearly a month ago, with a bunch of begging brothers and wandering septons arriving to the town," Emmon started, letting out a deep sigh. "I didn't think much of it at first, but soon I heard they were preaching in the streets about a new river king that resided in Stoney Sept and was going to overthrow the rule of the Storm King in Riverlands."

"Lucifer Justman," Ronas muttered grimly, and Emmon nodded in confirmation. "Eventually I had a few of these preachers arrested and thrown into cells. I would've hanged them publicly for their crime of inciting treason, but my advisors counseled caution against agitating the townsfolk, so I had their throats cut in the privacy of their cells instead. If only that had been the end of it," he muttered and shook his head. "Many begging brothers remained in the town and kept preaching their treasonous message, only they got better at hiding from the guards. And then less than a week ago a whole battalion of Poor Fellows sneaked into the town during the night, led by a man named Ben the Brute. With the help of the townsfolk that the begging brothers had managed to recruit to their cause they overtook Fairmarket within a day. I was lucky to escape with my life."

Silence followed Ser Emmon's story. As shocking as it was, it made sense for the Faith Militant to target Fairmarket in an operation like this. After all, it had once been a town fiercely loyal to the Teagues. _We should've seen something like this coming,_ Ellyn thought, turning her gaze to Lord Brydan. The young lord looked like he was completely unaware of his surroundings, in his eyes an empty yet determined gaze, and his clenched fists resting against the table.

"I believe we should march to take Fairmarket back as soon as possible," Ronas finally broke the silence, looking at his nephew with questioning eyes. "Mylord, if you wish, I could…"

"I will lead our forces," Brydan cut off his uncle and stood up. "My father freed this land from the tyranny of the Teagues and the Faith Militant, and I will honor his legacy by making sure his achievement won't go to waste. It is my duty."

Ellyn gulped, looking at her husband with a mix of admiration and concern. The earlier nightmare returned to her mind, and a part of her wanted to speak up in protest to Brydan's decision, but she knew she couldn't do it. She couldn't deny Brydan his duty, certainly not because of some stupid dream. Instead she stood up, grabbed her husband's hand and kissed it.

"May the gods protect you, my love," Ellyn whispered.


	21. Barron II

**Barron**

Bronzegate was a modestly sized square fort with thick stone walls and broad watchtowers in its corners, standing atop a high hill overlooking the vast forests to its north and the rolling hills to its south. Its purpose had once been to guard the northern border of the Storm King's realm, which was a strange thought now that the Kingdom of Storm reached all the way to the Neck. _At least for now,_ Prince Barron Durrandon thought grimly.

It was almost noon, and the old prince stood atop the northern walls gazing at the military camp that had gathered outside the castle. Banners of houses Buckler, Fell, Errol and Hasty flickered proudly in the wind, but the host was no more than two-thousand men strong. It wouldn't be enough to save Riverlands from the Faith Militant and their allies, Barron was certain of that. He would need to recruit the Darklyns and their bannermen to his cause, which was a thought that didn't bring him much joy. Lord Renly Darklyn was a thoroughly unpleasant man with little redeeming qualities, yet it seemed the fate of Riverlands would soon be in his hands. _And in mine._

"Prince Barron," he heard a timid female voice speaking to his right, and turned to see Princess Arya Durrandon approaching him. "Please, you may call me Uncle Barron," he responded with a small smile, which the girl shyly reciprocated.

"Uncle Barron," Arya corrected herself, leaning against the battlements and eyeing at the commotion of the camp below. "I just wanted to thank you," she said with a small gulp. "For allowing mother and I to come with you. It's been years since I've been this far from Storm's End and… it's refreshing."

"You're welcome, princess," Barron replied lightheartedly. "Just remember that this is no harmless jaunt to see the countryside. We are very likely marching to a war, which is no place for a princess. I've yet to discuss this further with your mother, but I believe you two should remain in Duskendale until we can be sure that you'll be safe in Raventree Hall."

Arya shrugged in a carefree manner. "Duskendale is fine by me," she said nonchalantly. "Though I know mother would like to see her childhood home again."

"And she will," Barron promised confidently. For a moment neither of them said anything, until Barron spoke up again. "You know, losing her father was a hard thing for Shana to overcome sixteen years ago, and I know you feel the same way now."

"I don't want to talk about it," Arya muttered weakly, avoiding eye contact with Barron. "Are you sure?" he asked with a warm and empathizing voice. "Arlan was my brother, I miss him dearly as well."

A couple tears rolled down the princess' soft cheeks. "I try to think about all the good memories I have with my father, but now they are all overshadowed with the thought that he is no longer here, and that I will never hear his voice again."

"You should hold on to those memories," Barron gently advised his niece. "Loss is a natural part of life, but we should not let it guide us into darkness and apathy. You had a father that loved you, a father that anyone could be proud of. Carry his memory in your heart, not just with grief, but with love and pride."

"I will try, Uncle Barron," Arya promised, wiping the tears from her eyes and letting out a small sigh.

For a moment they stood there in silence, until Prince Barron noticed Lord Benfred Buckler ascending the stairway to the battlements and approaching them with heavy steps. Benfred was a plump man on his early forties, his receding hairline making him look slightly older than that. He was the son of the late Lord Romny Buckler who had fought valiantly and fallen in the Battle of Six Kings, but to Barron's eye Benfred did not look like the warrior his father had been.

"Prince Barron, Princess Arya," Lord Benfred greeted them with a small bow, slightly out of breath from the climb up the stairs. "Lord Benfred, you may speak freely," Barron responded with a steely and authoritative tone. He was the commander of this army, which meant that he had to assert his leadership into every interaction he had with these lords.

"We just received a raven from Lord Blackwood," the Buckler lord informed with a troubled tone on his voice. "I thought you should be the first to hear the news."

"Well, spit it out then," Barron urged impatiently, and Benfred gave him an obedient nod. "The Faith Militant has captured Fairmarket," he explained hastily. "Ser Emmon Shawney has escaped to Raventree Hall, but a significant portion of his troops were massacred on the streets by a battalion of Poor Fellows that infiltrated the town during nighttime, with the help of hundreds of townsfolk that joined them."

"So, it has begun," Barron stated sternly. "A war is ahead of us, it is clear now if it wasn't before."

That night a great feast was held at the great hall of Bronzegate. The lower tables were crowded with knights and soldiers of the host, while the royalty and lords were seated on the high table at the dais. Ale flowed, the tables were filled with a wide array of food ranging from pigeon pies and venison stew to roasted boar's loins, all the while minstrels were playing cheery songs on the galleries. Barron had to admit that Lord Benfred certainly knew how to arrange a splendid feast, though it did little to lighten his mood at the moment.

Barron glanced to his left, seeing Lord Benfred, his wife Lady Shireen and their seventeen-year-old daughter Branda having a seemingly cheerful conversation with Queen Shana and Princess Arya. _I suppose this feast is good for something,_ Barron thought as he saw his niece laughing at something Branda had just said.

"So, Prince Barron," he heard a male voice speaking to his right and shifted his attention back Lord Edgar Fell who was sitting next to him. He was a well-mannered and handsome man on his late thirties, with a slicked back dark hair and a pointy goatee. "Tell me honestly, how dire exactly is the situation in Riverlands?"

"Well, you heard what happened in Fairmarket," Barron remarked grimly. "Aside from that, Stoney Sept is controlled by the Faith Militant and Harroway is likely to side with them as well. As for the river lords, Blackwood, Bracken and Tully are the only ones I trust fully."

"It seems to me that this will be a very different kind of war from the last one," Edgar said with a deep sigh. "With King Humfrey we just needed to beat him in a single decisive battle, but this time… I think the Faith Militant will avoid that, staying in hiding and striking from the shadows instead."

"For now," Barron agreed sternly. "However, if they truly intend to overthrow our rule in the Riverlands, sooner or later they will have to face us on the field of battle. I only wish the full might of the Storm King was with us for that moment."

No matter how splendid the feast was Prince Barron simply wasn't in the mood for drinking and laughter that night, and so he made his way to bed early.

The following day the host finally begun its march towards north. It was a brisk and sunny morning, and Prince Barron mounted on his horse stood atop a hill slightly to the northwest of Bronzegate, overlooking the army as it began its long march. The vanguard led by Lord Benfred Buckler's sons Robin and Barristan had already entered the forests to the north, while the last wagons of the supply train in the rear were only just leaving where the camp had been.

A single rider among the Errol troops in the middle diverted from the forces, galloping towards Barron instead. Quickly the prince recognized the rider as Jaremy Errol, the Lord of Haystack Hall. He was a stocky and broad-shouldered man with light grey hair and bushy beard, at the age of sixty being just a year younger than Barron himself. They had known each other from childhood, but Barron had never considered Jaremy a friend of his. In fact, in their youth they had even been outright rivals for a time, competing for the heart of the same fair maiden. Ultimately it had of course been a pointless rivalry, because that fair maiden happened to be Annara Tarth who eventually married Arlan and became his queen. All that seemed so distant and insignificant now, but somewhere deep in Barron's heart a sliver of grudge towards Jaremy still lingered.

"My prince," the Errol lord greeted him with a slight grin as he arrived atop the hill. "Lord Errol," Barron responded sternly.

"It is such a beautiful sight to see men of Stormlands marching to war, isn't it?" Jaremy Errol spoke with an exaggeratedly bombastic tone, stroking his beard as he gazed at the troops below them. "Not so beautiful after you remember many of them will never return," Barron responded grimly, to which Jaremy let out a small chuckle.

"Come on, Barron," he said with narrowed eyes and a sharp smirk. "We both know you want this war. It was your brother who got all the praise and glory last time. There is no shame in wanting to make a legacy for yourself."

"I am too old to care about praise and glory," Barron responded with a scoff. "And it is the legacy of my brother that I am trying to preserve."

"Whatever you say, my prince," Jaremy said with a cynical tone. "However, I do have to wonder if this war is worth it just to preserve your brother's legacy. There was a reason why he only annexed Riverlands after having been left with no other choice. The land is faraway and hard to control, and the river lords will never be truly loyal to us."

"Riverlands is a fertile and prosperous land," Barron reminded Lord Jaremy, who gave him an agreeing nod. "When it isn't in war, yes," he admitted with a small sigh. "However, it seems clear to me that land will never know peace. Its lords are as hostile towards each other as they are towards outsiders, and its smallfolk is divided between the followers of the Seven and the Old Gods."

"So, you believe it to be more trouble than it's worth to uphold our control over the Riverlands?" Barron asked calmly, to which Jaremy shrugged. "It is better than letting the Faith Militant control it, I suppose," he responded lazily. "They are puppets of the High Septon after all, who in turn is in league with the Gardeners. However, perhaps we should make this Brydan Blackwood a king, like Arlan had planned to do with his father."

"It could have worked with Lord Roderick, but it will not work with Brydan," Barron insisted sternly. He had a lot of respect for the young Lord of Raventree Hall and did believe he made a decent Warden of Riverlands, but he did not see him as suited for the role of a king.

"Why not?" Jaremy asked sharply. "He is a man grown now, and from what I know of him he would be a loyal ally to the Storm King even without a direct allegiance."

"He is not powerful or respected enough among the river lords to be their king," Barron explained calmly. "Right now Brydan's authority rests completely on our name and reputation. If we simply put a crown on his head and left Riverlands for him to rule over there would be half-a-dozen pretenders challenging his rule within months, and the land would burn in civil wars."

"Doesn't sound so different from the current situation," Jaremy remarked dryly, but Barron was quick to shake his head. "Trust me, it would be much worse."

For a moment they both remained silent, just eyeing at the army of troops marching down the road towards the forests in the north at a sluggish pace. Watching them made Barron wonder if he himself would ever return from this war, to see again the land that had raised him. It didn't matter, he would gladly die fulfilling his duty, but there was still something melancholic about it.

"Well, war waits for no man," Lord Jaremy suddenly broke the silence. "Ours is the fury!" he yelled as he raced down the hill to catch up with the troops.

"Ours is the fury," Barron repeated with quiet and hollow words.


	22. Walton IV

**Walton**

Walton Manderly woke up with an intense pain radiating from the back of his head. He was laying on a fur mattress, inside a pavilion illuminated by candles. Slowly turning his gaze to left he recognized his second cousin Willam sitting next to him. "Finally awake," the young knight said with a relieved tone.

"What… happened?" Walton asked, the pain making him grimace.

"You were knocked out during the squire melee a couple hours ago," Willam explained calmly, offering him a flask of water. He grabbed the flask and took a deep gulp, trying to remember what had happened. The memory of preparing for the melee with Ryam returned to his mind, as well as King Greydon's speech before it, but after that everything was foggy. "Who?" he simply asked.

"It was that Vyrwel lad, what's his name again?" Willam asked with a frown. "Ivar," Walton responded with a sigh, and his cousin nodded. "Please tell me he didn't win the melee?" he then asked, and Willam shook his head with a thin smirk.

"Leo Peake won," he stated calmly. "You had a pretty great duel with him before that arse of a Vyrwel knocked you out from behind. At that point there were just six fighters left, and Ivar was disqualified, meaning you came fifth in the competition. Not bad at all, Lord Waymar was proud of your performance."

It was a better result than Walton had expected before the melee, but the whole thing had still left a bitter taste in his mouth. Of course Ivar wasn't one to fight fair, but to smack him from behind in such a cowardly way was much lower than he had expected of him. And the sheer strength he had put to the strike was quite shocking as well, it was almost like he was trying to seriously injure Walton. _Perhaps instructed to do so by his father because of what I overheard back in Horn Hill,_ he then realized, feeling his stomach turn from the thought.

"Are you alright, Walton?" Willam asked gently, and as Walton nodded in response a bit of vomit found its way to his mouth. "If you're going to throw up, please do it outside," Willam pleaded. Walton nodded again, and immediately rushed out of the pavilion to puke. He felt weak and lightheaded, swaying slightly as he leaned forward against his knees, vomit dripping out of his mouth. It was the end of the first tourney day, and laughter and singing could be heard all around him on the nightly camp illuminated by torches and moonlight. The people walking past Walton glared at him with mild disgust.

"I see you're up on your feet again, boy," Walton heard the voice of his lord father Waymar Manderly approaching from the left. He nodded weakly, just barely managing to glance at his father before having to throw up again. "More or less," he muttered weakly.

"I confronted Lord Ilyn about the disgusting and cowardly actions his son committed in the melee, and he promised to punish the boy accordingly," Waymar stated sternly.

"I think Ivar may have done what he did by his father's request," Walton remarked quietly.

"Of course he did," his father replied sharply. "However, that is not something I can accuse him of without any evidence to support my claims. Nonetheless, this makes it clear that Lord Ilyn knows you heard his conversation back in Horn Hill and is seeking a way to cut that loose end. When you return to Horn Hill after this tourney you must keep your eyes and ears open and be prepared to defend yourself at all times. There is no telling how low these scum will stoop in their schemes against our family."

"So, you still want me to stay with the Tarlys?" Walton asked with a subtle gulp, and his father just gave him a stern nod. "Now go rest, boy. You clearly need it," he said nonchalantly. "I'll let your mother know that you're alright."

Walton followed his father's advice and went to rest, but his dreams that night were anything but appeasing, as he had delirious nightmares that woke him up several times throughout the night. In one of these nightmares he was laying naked in a foggy forest, shivering from the cold. Upon standing up he saw shadowy figures approaching from the distance, armed with daggers and murder in their eyes, but no matter how hard Walton tried he couldn't move his legs to run away. He could only stand there, frozen and waiting for the slowly approaching death. In another dream, or perhaps it was the same, he was climbing up the walls of his childhood home Dunstonbury, when suddenly the castle crumbled all around him and he fell into nothingness.

In the morning Walton couldn't remember how these dreams had ended, but they had left him with a nauseating feeling of anxiety regardless. Willam fetched him some porridge for breakfast, after which his mother, brother and sisters came to see him at the pavilion.

"If you ask me that Ivar boy soiled his reputation for good with what he pulled yesterday," Andrew berated with an angered tone. "If any man knights him after that, he will only reveal himself to be a false knight."

"I've never liked the Vyrwels," Meliana claimed with crossed arms, to which her older sister Alyssa reacted with rolling her eyes. "It's not like you even know any of the Vyrwels, Mel," she remarked with a small chuckle.

"What Ivar did was wrong, but let us not malign the whole family because the actions of one," Lady Alicent calmly interjected herself into the conversation.

"Are you sure we shouldn't?" Andrew asked sharply, a knowing look in his eyes.

"Not now," Alicent responded sternly, before turning her eyes to Walton again. "How are you feeling, my son?"

"My head still hurts," Walton replied to his mother with a sigh. "I tried to take a little walk earlier, but I started to feel nauseous almost immediately."

"You need more rest, but you'll be fine," Alicent assured, softly stroking his fair hair. "My beautiful boy, you will be alright."

"Mommy's boy," Meliana teased with a smirk on her face, and Walton shot her with a mildly annoyed glare.

"Hush now," Alicent said with a soft and compassionate smile on her face. "You're mommy's boys and girls, all four of you. None of you forget it, wherever life takes you."

After a bit of chatting they left Walton to rest some more, but soon afterwards Lord Symon and Ryam came to see him. The Tarly lord had a concerned look in his eyes as he entered the pavilion. "Apologies for not being able to come check on you sooner," he said with a sincere tone. "Are you feeling any better?"

"A bit," Walton answered truthfully.

"You fought well yesterday," Symon complimented him. "A few more feats like that and I'm going to have to knight you, my squire," he added with a warm smirk on his face.

"Do you think you could've beaten Leo if Ivar hadn't knocked you out from behind?" Ryam asked enthusiastically, and Walton just gave him a shrug. "Honestly my memories of the duel with Leo are a bit foggy," he admitted with a sigh. "I heard he went on to win the melee. How did you fare?"

"I lost against Rolland Redwyne, the grandson of Lord Orton Redwyne," Ryam answered unenthusiastically. "He beat me fair and square though, can't complain."

Walton spent the following days mostly resting in his cousin's pavilion, and every now and then Willam or Ryam would come to tell him what had happened in the tourney field. Ryam explained excitedly how Ser Raymund Redwyne had been defeated by his fellow royal guard knight Ser Alan Cockshaw in a joust that lasted for nine tilts, and less excitedly how his older brother Triston had been unhorsed in a single tilt by King Greydon's second son Prince Harlon.

Willam on the other hand made his way all the way to the top four contenders, who would joust for the champion's purse during the last day of the tourney. He had unhorsed four knights throughout the second and third days, most notably Ser Osbert Tyrell of the royal guard.

During the final day of the tourney Walton finally felt strong enough to attend the audience of the joust again. Walking still made him feel dizzy, but he forced himself to ignore it – his cousin had the chance to become the champion and he wasn't about to miss it. He was sitting next to Ryam, Triston, Genna, Lady Marya and Lord Symon. On the other side of Symon was seated Lord Ilyn Vyrwel with his wife and eldest son, but Ivar was notably absent.

The day began with a joust between Ser Willam Manderly and Ser Addam Oakheart, the son and heir of Lord Alester Oakheart. They were both young knights on their early twenties, and neither of them had been expected to make it this far in the joust.

"Did you see Ser Addam riding earlier?" Walton quietly asked his friend Ryam, who nodded calmly. "I saw his final joust yesterday against Ser Arwood Roxton of the royal guard."

"And? Do you think Willam has a chance against him?" Walton urged his friend, who chuckled in a relaxed manner. "From what I've seen of Ser Willam during this tourney, I think he has a chance against any knight," Ryam said with an admiring look in his eyes as he watched Ser Willam taking his place at the end of the tiltyard. With a nervous smile Walton turned to look at his cousin as well.

The trumpet chimed, the two knights tilted their lances and charged against each other. The horses galloped ahead with a thundering sound and the audience tensed up. Willam deflected Ser Addam's lance with his shield and struck his own with great precision into the lower chest of his opponent, unhorsing him in the first tilt. Walton and Ryam both jumped up from their seats to cheer.

Next up was Ser Alan Cockshaw against Prince Harlon Gardener. Alan was of course clad in the plain white armor and green cape of the royal guard, but Harlon had given a bit more concessions to ornament in his armament. Across the prince's gilded plated armor ran green vines made with emeralds, donned over it was silken black cape with gold trimmings, and his pointy golden greathelm was decorated with white feathers and two green hands on the sides that almost looked like small wings.

"Fifty gold hands for the Cockshaw!" Walton heard Ser Halmon Hunt yelling a couple seats below them. The man had come third in the archery contest yesterday and was clearly eager to spend the coin he had won. "I'll take that offer," Symon responded with a small smirk, and Ser Halmon turned to look at him with surprise. "Mylord, I don't know if I should gamble against my liege," he said with an amused tone.

"Better you lose your coin to me than someone else," Symon responded sharply, and they both laughed.

And so, the two contenders charged for the first tilt. Both of their lances broke against the other's shield, but neither looked particularly shaken. Prince Harlon even cheerfully waved his hand for the common folk while waiting for his second lance being delivered by his squire. In the second tilt Ser Alan's lance scratched slightly against Prince Harlon's helmet, damaging the decorative hand but nothing more. And in the third tilt the prince unhorsed the knight of the royal guard.

"I'll take those fifty gold hands after the melee, thanks," Symon quipped to Ser Halmon, who bowed down his head in a defeated manner.

There was a short break before the last joust, during which Walton left his seat by the Tarlys and made way to his own family, sitting down next to his older brother Andrew. "Are you feeling alright, little brother?" he asked calmly, and Walton gave him a nod. "Just nervous and excited for the final joust."

A band of minstrels and a court jester with stilts came to play music and entertain the audience while they waited, and while his sisters laughed at the jester's tricks Walton found little enjoyment from it. He had come here to watch knights, not fools.

Finally, after almost half-an-hour the jester and minstrels left the tiltyard, and Ser Willam and Prince Harlon rode back in. They bowed before King Greydon and made their ways to the opposing ends of the yard. "Do it for the pride of House Manderly," Walton heard his father muttering a few seats to his right.

The trumpet chimed again, and the final joust of the tourney began. Walton's eyes were locked on his cousin, wondering how this all felt to him, the cheering crowds and hundreds of nobles watching. This had to be the proudest moment in Willam's life, and Walton prayed he would win.

Both riders were careful in the first tilt, concentrating more on deflecting their opponent's lances than on striking aggressively. The second tilt was much the same, and in the third Willam's shield broke, causing a loud gasp among the audience. He remained steadily atop his mount though, and a squire brought him a new shield. Once, twice, thrice more Ser Willam and Prince Harlon charged against each other, both refusing to be defeated. Walton could see they were both getting weary, the shields and lances no doubt starting to feel heavy on their hands. And then they charged for the seventh tilt. With a loud crack Willam's lance broke Harlon's shield, and hit the prince on his side hard enough to finally knock him off his horse.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but no one cheered quite as loudly as the Manderlys. After Willam had made his victory laps and crowned Princess Deranna Gardener – the wife of Prince Perceon – as the Queen of Love and Beauty, he dismounted his horse and with the lead of Lord Waymar they went to congratulate him.

"You've brought great glory to our house today, Ser Willam," Waymar said with pride oozing from his every word as he hugged the young knight. Willam looked exhausted but happy, as they all showered him with praise.

Standing there in middle of the cheering crowds together with his family, Walton allowed himself to feel hopeful for the future. Whatever dangers and challenges were ahead of them, whatever plots laid out against them, they would survive them all together. House Manderly would survive.


	23. Hagon IV

**Hagon**

The sky was cloudy, with rays of sunlight shining through and banners flickering in the wind. Prince Hagon Hoare leaned on the battlements of Orkwatch, eyeing the large fleet approaching the castle from south. Three Hoare longships led the fleet, behind them some forty Farman war galleys and dromonds, as well as almost a hundred longships of House Greyjoy and their vassals.

"Your father won't be pleased to find you here," Quenton Farwynd said calmly, standing next to the prince.

Hagon glared at his friend for a moment, before turning his eyes back to the approaching fleet. "My father knows I'm an ironman at heart. He'll understand." With those words he left the battlements and made his way back into his chambers.

On the way Hagon saw Karin Orkwood once again sparring with Harrick Hoare at the courtyard, flashing a thin smirk at the woman as he walked past her. Once in his chambers Hagon sat down with a sigh to wait for the inevitable. And after less than half-an-hour the door was indeed knocked on. Opening it Hagon saw his father, King Harmund II Hoare, clad in a dark leather attire with a fur-lined black wool coat donned over it. On his face was a steely expression, and in his black eyes a cold, piercing gaze.

"Your Grace," Hagon greeted him with a small bow, forcing a small smirk on his face, which his father didn't reciprocate. With a sigh the king stepped inside the chambers, taking off his gloves and walking wordlessly to the window overlooking the courtyard.

"In my letter, I commanded you to garrison Hoare Castle, Hagon," Harmund stated coldly, not even looking at his son. "By coming here you've disobeyed a direct order I gave you."

"You knew I could not follow that order," Hagon argued sternly, and Harmund turned to look at him with a sharp glare. "You chose not to," he corrected, and though he did not raise his voice his words were strict and strong. "The gods know I should send you back with your hands tied behind your back."

"But you won't?" Hagon asked carefully, gulping subtly under his father's intense glare.

"I heard the Shrike visited Hoare Castle while I was gone," Harmund changed the topic, his tone remaining harsh.

"He did," Hagon admitted with a nod. "I welcomed him, and…"

"And you let him baptize you," Harmund concluded sternly. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking about our house, and about our kingdom," Hagon claimed confidently. "You may despise the Shrike and his kind, but our people still hold them in high regard. Do you think my brother could ever appease them? No, they despise him, so it is up to me prove to them and the people we rule over that House Hoare is still Ironborn."

"Your brother is the heir to the Seastone Chair," the King reminded him with furrowed brows. "However, I do believe we should do what we can to retain peace with the priests of the Drowned God. Perhaps your encounter with the Shrike did some good after all."

With a relieved smile Hagon nodded to his father. "You're welcome, Your Grace."

For a moment tense silence lingered in the room, until King Harmund took a step closer to his son, his expression slightly mellowed now. "So, you want to sail to war?" he asked calmly.

"With all my heart, father," Hagon responded sincerely.

"Then I shall not deny it from you, son," Harmund said with a small sigh, placing his hand on Hagon's shoulder and looking him to the eyes. "But remember, war is no place for a boy."

"I am a man of the Iron Isles, Your Grace," Hagon assured, his words quiet but confident.

That night a feast was held at the great hall of Orkwatch, the noble lords and captains of their mighty fleet taking part. Hagon was seated at the high table, between King Harmund and Ser Sandor Farman, who was the heir to Fair Isle and the man in charge of the Farman fleet. Ser Sandor was a tall and sinewy man on his later forties, his golden hair receding and starting to grey, and on his tall cleanshaven face seemingly stuck a disgruntled expression. The Farman knight was dressed in a blue velvet coat with golden waves embroidered on the sleeves and three white ships on the chest. Over his shoulders was donned a red silk cape fastened by a large round clasp of gold decorated with small rubies.

To Hagon's left Harmund was conversing with his cousin Lord Qarlton Hoare, and as they reminisced and laughed about something that had happened twenty years ago the prince turned his attention to his right, where Ser Sandor was having a much quieter discussion with Lord Dagon Greyjoy. Dagon was a tall and lean man on his late fifties, his chiseled and hard cleanshaven face starting to show signs of aging, and his once black long hair now shining silver. Lord Dagon was a mild-mannered and cold man, in his pale blue eyes always a sharp glare.

"Who knows, you may have iron in your blood as well, Farman," the Greyjoy lord spoke softly, the thinnest of smirks on his face. "The Ironborn held Fair Isle for several generations during the Age of Heroes."

"Unlikely, mylord," Ser Sandor responded, and though his tone was polite his eyes told he found the suggestion repulsive. "House Farman can trace their ancestry to long before the ironborn ever invaded Fair Isle, all the way to the ancient Farman Kings."

"I know, and I also know that the ironborn were eventually driven out from your island by Lord Gylbert Farman," Dagon admitted nonchalantly. "However, there is a story here on the Iron Isles, which tells that it wasn't Gylbert who fathered his son who would go on to inherit Faircastle and Fair Isle. No, instead it was a Greyjoy reaver whose seed would inherit the lands and titles of Lord Gylbert."

Ser Sandor looked downright shocked by the Greyjoy's words. "Preposterous," he muttered in an irate tone.

"Just a story, ser, nothing more," Lord Dagon said with a sly smirk, raising his cup and gulping down his wine.

Towards the end of the night King Harmund raised from his seat to hold a speech. "My fellow Ironborn!" he began, to which the many captains in the hall cheered loudly. "And our honored guests and allies from the Fair Isle," Harmund continued, receiving a significantly tamer reaction from the couple dozen Westermen in the room. "Together we have gathered the greatest war fleet Westeros has ever seen, and together we shall sail to conquer! No man of the Reach can stop us, they shall all kneel before the ironmen of the sea and the lions of the west. To glory!"

"To glory!" the whole hall roared in unison, and Hagon could feel his blood pumping from excitement.

The following morning Prince Hagon made his way down to the beach clad in an iron halfhelm with a nasal guard, chainmail byrnie and a black tabard with the sigil of House Hoare in the chest, a dark blue cloak donned over them, a round shield carried on his back, and from his belt hanging a shortsword and a hand axe. With a satisfied smile on his face the young prince observed the thousands of warriors making their way into the hundreds of ships anchored in the harbor, carrying with them swords, shields, axes, spears, bows and arrows, as well as food and other supplies.

"We'll follow your lead, King Harmund," Hagon heard Ser Sandor Farman saying to his father with his stiff and formal tone some dozen yards away from him. "There is a long journey ahead, and a longer war after that," Harmund said with a calm and authoritative tone to the Farman knight. "Make sure your men aren't too exhausted by the time we reach Mander's mouth."

Sandor bowed obediently to Harmund, before making his way to the longboat that took him to his flagship dromond anchored near the entrance of the bay to the south. Next Hagon saw his father approached by Lord Ulfric Harlaw. He didn't get to hear their conversation however, as he himself was approached by Lord Roryn Drumm.

"Look at that Harlaw wuss groveling at the feet of our king," the Drumm lord said with a mocking tone, a look of disgust in his eyes. "Thinks very highly of himself too, no doubt."

"Well, he did bring a lot of ships and men to our cause," Hagon pointed out sharply. "More than you did, mylord."

"Aye, he did," Roryn admitted with a thin smirk that didn't reach his blue eyes, stroking his forked black beard. "Fancy new ships and green boys to sail them. They are traders and farmers, men of peace and summer. My captains and their crews are reavers, my prince. Who do you think will prove themselves more useful in war?"

"Your men may be more experienced than Lord Harlaw's, but Harlaw's men are no less ironborn. They've been raised and trained to fight," Hagon argued calmly, to which Roryn chuckled coldly. "Aye, there is iron in their blood, I do not deny that. However, they are not men yet, and many of them will die as boys. It is one thing to know how to fight, and another entirely to know how to _kill._ That is something you don't learn in sparring and training at the comfort of your home."

Hagon nodded quietly, knowing the Drumm lord knew what he was talking about. Roryn the Reaver had sailed and raided the shores of Westeros and beyond for nearly three decades, winning plenty of wealth and reputation in doing so, and Hagon could only imagine how many hundreds of men he had left dead in his wake. Roryn tapped him lightly on the shoulder, a wolfish grin forming on his face. "It is men like us, warriors and reavers, who raised the Ironborn to greatness, Prince Hagon." As he turned his eyes to Lord Harlaw again, Roryn's face turned sour. "There would be no men like him without the blood that men like us spill. Never forget that, my prince." With those words the Drumm lord walked away from him and made his way to his own longship.

And so, shortly before noon the massive fleet of over four hundred ships in total finally set sail. Hagon stood at the prow of his longship _Iron Heart_ as they entered the open sea, gazing in awe at all the ships around him and feeling the wind on his face and hair. So many times in the past he had dreamt of something like this, it felt almost surreal to be here now to witness it with his own eyes.

"My prince," he heard the carefree voice of his friend Quenton from behind and turned to face him with a wide grin on his face. "Can you believe it, Farwynd? We're sailing to war."

"Well, you seem as happy as a clam," Quenton said with a chuckle. "Excited to kill some fools, I take it?"

"Excited to win glory in the name of our kingdom!" Hagon responded, nudging his friend lightly on the shoulder. "This war will be our legacy, Quenton. There is so much reputation and riches for us to gain, my friend."

"Unless we die," Quenton replied grimly, to which Hagon could only roll his eyes. "Try not soil your pants while you cower in fear," he jabbed mockingly.

"It's not that I'm afraid to die," Quenton insisted, crossing his arms. "But if you think about it, there's a high chance that at least one of us will. I've never been to a battle, but I know enough about them to tell that you're as likely to become a corpse as you are to win any glory or riches."

"A skilled enough warrior can survive hundreds of battles," Hagon replied nonchalantly, thinking specifically about Roryn the Reaver.

Quenton shrugged. "Or lucky enough," he said with a smirk, and they both laughed.


	24. Gwynesse IV

**Gwynesse**

Every day the terrain turned more rugged, forested and mountainous, as the host of nearly fifteen thousand troops and a couple thousand camp followers marching under Lannister banners made its way from Casterly Rock and Lannisport to east towards the Deep Den. Especially during the first week of marching more and more landed knights, hedge knights, freeriders and sellswords kept joining them, and the morale among the troops was high – they were marching to glory. As if sent by the gods to confirm this, on the noon of the ninth day of marching they saw a pride of seven lions watching the passing army from atop a nearby hill.

"The gods are truly with us," Prince Harmund Hoare stated with an enchanted smile on his face as he looked at the lions, Gwynesse Goodbrother riding beside him.

After nearly two weeks of marching they reached the Deep Den, where a smaller host of around six-thousand troops gathered by such noble houses as Lydden, Payne, Brax, Ferren, Serret, Greenfield, Lefford and Peckledon were waiting to join the larger force led by Prince Tymond Lannister.

Deep Den was quite a large castle, even if nowhere near the sheer grandeur of Casterly Rock. It was perched high atop a small mountain, a steep and winding path leading up to its gatehouse. South of the mountain at the meadow on its feet stood a modest town protected by timber walls, which were decorated with the banners of House Lydden depicting a white badger on a green and brown field. While majority of the troops remained in the town and the camp next to it, the princes and noble lords with some of their knights continued up to the castle itself.

As they rode into the courtyard they were welcomed by a broad and stocky man with short dirty blonde hair and well-groomed full beard, in his early fifties as far Gwynesse could tell. He wore a velvet doublet quartered brown-and-green, and a dark grey woolen cloak fastened by a golden clasp in the shape of a badger. The man grinned, but the smile didn't reach his emerald green eyes.

As Prince Tymond and Prince Tywell dismounted their horses and approached the man, he went down on one knee and bowed down his head. "Rise, Ser Alton," Tymond spoke with a calm but authoritative tone, and the Lydden knight obeyed. Then Tymond embraced him in a brotherly hug. "How is Lord Luwin holding up?"

"He is in good health, my prince, if slightly worn down by his advanced age," Ser Alton responded with a small smirk.

A few hours later they attended a great feast held for the noble lords and knights of the Lannister army in the cavernous great hall of Deep Den, constructed inside the mountain. Gwynesse sat on the high table between Prince Harmund and Ser Aubrey Crakehall, just a couple seats to the left from the Lannister princes, who were seated next to the elderly Lord Luwin Lydden, and his wife and three middle-aged sons. To her right on the other hand, after Ser Aubrey, were seated lords Brax, Serrett and Payne. Lord Ryman Brax was a short man on his mid-forties with a plain and stern face and stubble beard, his frizzy and receding hair matching the brown color of his eyes. He was clad in a simple dark leather jerkin over a white linen tunic, with a woolen cloak dyed purple donned over his shoulders.

Lord Lyn Serrett seemed to Gwynesse to be opposite in every way to the Brax lord, being a tall and handsome man on his early thirties with flowing golden hair and a smiling cleanshaven face. He wore a light green velvet doublet with intricate silver patterns embroidered on it, and a light blue silken cape fastened with a silver clasp depicting a peacock. Lord Merrell Payne on the other hand was a bald and portly man on his mid-fifties with a bushy dark mustache and strong jawline. He wore a checkered high-collared doublet of white and purple, and a golden silk sash over it.

"I believe I should be given the honor to lead the vanguard," Lord Lyn claimed in-between chewing the boar meat from his plate. "After all, I know the northern Reach better than any other man in this army."

"I'm afraid Prince Tymond has already given the honor to me," Ser Aubrey responded calmly, raising his cup for the Serrett lord before taking a sip.

"An untested commander leading the vanguard," Lord Ryman commented dryly, to which Aubrey merely reacted with a dismissive chuckle.

"I can attest that Ser Aubrey is a capable commander, mylords," Harmund asserted calmly. "He'll do well in leading the vanguard."

"He is a skilled knight, I know that much," Lord Merrell complimented with a placid tone. "Knocked my fool of a son off his horse in a single tilt in the Tourney of Cornfield two years ago."

"That was a good tourney," Aubrey chimed in with a sharp grin. "I remember you coming in third place on the melee yourself, Lord Payne."

"Aye, defeated by Ser Adrian Banefort and his bloody warhammer," Merrell reminisced with a thin smile on his face. "By gods, that man is strong as an ox. Does he march with us, by the way?"

"Indeed, the Banefort troops are led by Lord Monfryd, but Ser Adrian rides beside his lord father," Aubrey confirmed.

"We certainly have no shortage of accomplished knights amidst our ranks," Lyn Serrett stated with a jovial tone.

"Neither do the Reachmen," Ryman Brax said grimly, gulping down his wine. "In fact, for every accomplished knight of the Rock, the Reach has three of their own. Thankfully we are marching to a war, and not a tourney."

"It is as you say, Lord Brax, the Reachmen are not an opponent to be underestimated," Harmund admitted calmly. "However, with the aid of my father and the ironborn fleet, I believe our chances are good."

"That is if we can truly trust in your father's aid, Prince Hoare," Ryman muttered in response. "The ironborn are powerful on the sea, everyone knows that. However, a long campaign on land against the armies of House Gardener? No offense, my prince, but I have my reservations."

Before any of them could respond to Lord Brax, Prince Tymond chinked his goblet loudly and stood up to hold a speech. The whole great hall quickly quieted down to hear what the crown prince of Casterly Rock had to say.

"Noble lords and knights of the Rock," Tymond greeted them all with a smile on his face, though Gwynesse could spot the hint of nervousness in the fifty-year-old prince's words. "Ahead of us lays a long march, and many battles. I cannot tell you when you will see your homes and your families again, nor promise that you will return from this war at all, but I want to assure each of you that you will be fighting for a great cause. With your swords and lances you will change the future of Westeros and rise Kingdom of the Rock to the kind of glory never seen before. This war will be our legacy, and you will be its heroes!"

The lords and knights cheered for their prince of course, but Gwynesse couldn't help but think that the crown prince didn't quite have the knack for powerful speeches like his father King Lancel did.

After two nights of rest in Deep Den the large host of over twenty-thousand troops and some three thousand camp followers began to slowly march its way south, the Crakehall vanguard leading the way. After a week of marching the verdant and forested hills of the southeastern Rock turned into the vast green plains of the northern Reach.

At the side of the road connecting Deep Den and Stonebridge there stood an ancient five feet tall stone, white as snow and eroded by centuries of exposure to the elements. It signified the border between the two kingdoms, on its northern side carved the hand of the Gardeners and on its southern side the Lannister lion.

"This border was established after the failed conquest of King Lancel the Fourth over three-hundred years ago," Prince Tywell told, standing in front of the stone with Prince Harmund and Gwynesse. Softly the young Lannister prince touched the surface of the stone, a pondering look in his eyes. "The Gardener king was preoccupied with his war in the Stormlands, his own lands left with meager defenses, and yet the forces of House Osgrey were able to repel King Lancel's armies. This war will not be easily won."

Prince Harmund tapped his friend lightly on the shoulder. "House Hoare stands with you this time," he assured softly. Looking at the stone Gwynesse suddenly remembered something from her history lessons. "Didn't King Lancel the Fourth slay King Harrald Hoare and his eldest son?" she asked quietly, and Tywell gave her a surprised glance.

"Um, yes, I believe that is true," he confirmed with a small nod after a moment of hesitation. "Before his failed conquest of the Reach King Lancel the Fourth repelled an ironborn invasion on the northwestern coast of the Rock, which ended in him beheading King Harrald Halfdrowned and his heir."

"All in the past," Harmund was quick to say, glancing at both Tywell and Gwynesse. "Liked I said, we stand together now."

And together they entered the Kingdom of Reach. These northeastern plains were undoubtedly the most sparsely populated region of the Reach, but small villages and farmsteads still dotted land. Bands of hundred-or-so soldiers were sent to forage food and loot whatever valuables they could find from these settlements, but Gwynesse, Harmund and Tywell remained by the main force and merely heard the reports from these foraging parties. That was until the evening of the fifth day after crossing the border, when the Lannister army made their camp by a village recently raided by their troops.

"This is… horrifying," Gwynesse spoke quietly as they rode through the village, seeing men, women and children littered dead on the ground, their homes desecrated and robbed by the invaders.

"This is war," Harmund responded to her, though his voice betrayed him and revealed that he wasn't comfortable with the sight either.

"It is ugly, but it is required," Tywell spoke, doing a better job than his cousin at keeping his voice devoid of emotion. "An army of this size needs all the food it can find to be kept fed. These poor folk unfortunately stood between the lion and its prey."

"I shall pray for them tonight," Harmund said quietly. "Would you care to join me, Lady Gwynesse?" he asked with a subtle gulp. Their eyes met for a moment, and Gwynesse could see the pleading look in the Hoare prince's dark eyes. "I will, my prince," she responded with a stilted tone, trying her best to ignore the horrific scenery around them.

After the camp was erected and Gwynesse had had dinner in the privacy of her own tent, she entered Harmund's pavilion. The prince was on his knees on the mattress, two lit candles on the ground in front of him. "Join me, please," Harmund said quietly, and with a wordless nod Gwynesse kneeled next to her prince.

"I've lighted two candles, one for the Father Above and one for the Mother Above," the prince explained as he softly grabbed Gwynesse's right hand. "Father is the face of justice. He judges all our deeds, protects those who are just and punishes those who do wrong. We should pray that those who lose their lives in this war will be judged fairly by him." The prince gulped audibly, before continuing. "Mother is the face of mercy. She looks after all her children with a loving smile and wishes peace between us all. We should pray that she will show us her mercy and make this war swift, so that as many as possible can be spared from needless death."

Harmund closed his eyes, and for a moment they both remained silent. Gwynesse looked at the small dancing flames atop the candles, wondering if the gods were truly in them. If they were, she couldn't feel their presence.

"My prince," she spoke up quietly after a moment, and Harmund opened his eyes to look at her. He looked strangely weak and vulnerable in that moment, which made Gwynesse hesitate for a couple of seconds. "This war… do you believe your gods truly condone it?"

Harmund turned his gaze down, letting out a deep sigh. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. "All I know is that this war can change Westeros for the better, but only if we are victorious. So, I pray it is the Seven's plan that we shall prevail."

"Then I will pray for it as well, my prince," Gwynesse said softly, grabbing Harmund's other hand now. They looked each other in the eye, Harmund's lips forming a wistful smile. With a passionate kiss they embraced each other and made love in the candlelight.


	25. Lyonel V (Act I finale)

**Lyonel**

Lyonel Bracken woke up at dawn as the many bells of Stoney Sept chimed in a cacophony, inviting the townsfolk for a morning prayer. With a sigh he scrambled up from the bed, seeing that Axel was already awake and standing by the window of the small quarters given to them in the house next to the chapterhouse of the Warrior's Sons. The young squire looked quite tired.

"Did you get any sleep, boy?" Lyonel asked calmly.

"A little," Axel answered tonelessly, his gaze locked on the street below. Lyonel walked next to him, seeing men, women and children hurrying towards the septs in the street. "Is something wrong?"

"It's just this place, ser," Axel responded with a sigh. "I pray to the Seven, but the Faith Militant… I don't think a man is supposed to dedicate his whole life just for the gods. It doesn't seem right."

Lyonel smiled thinly and gave the boy an approving nod. "I agree."

They broke their fast at the mess hall of the chapterhouse, where they were quickly approached by the commander of the Warrior's Sons – Ser Harrold Hill.

"King Lucifer has requested you to join him in a prayer at the sept, Ser Leo of Duskendale," Ser Harrold spoke sternly, a judgmental glare in his eyes. "I tried to tell him it is of no use, because you are clearly a godless man."

"What makes you think so?" Lyonel asked calmly.

"I have developed an eye for it," the bald man said with a disparaging tone. "I've known so many of your kind throughout my life. Weak and misguided men, driven by greed and falsehoods."

"No offense, ser, but you do not know me," Lyonel responded, keeping his voice calm and polite. For a moment silence lingered between them, until Harrold nodded stiffly. "I suppose we'll see."

Lyonel told his squire to wait in their quarters and followed Ser Harrold out. The rainbow-cloaked knight led him to the long steps leading up to the grand sept overlooking the town. By the tall entrance of the sept there stood seven knights of the Warrior's Sons in guard, each as unmoving as statues until Ser Harrold signaled for them to make way. And then they entered the sept itself, an enormous structure of marble and gold. Seven aisled led down to the middle of the sept, where altars and nine-feet-tall bronze statues depicting each of the seven gods stood in a ring. Light shimmering through the tall and colorful windows of leaded glass danced on statues.

Harrold halted at the top of the steps, and wordlessly nodded towards King Lucifer Justman who was on his knees by the statue of the Warrior. Taking in a deep breath, Lyonel began to approach the young king, while Ser Harrold remained where he stood. Lucifer was a lean man on his early twenties, if Lyonel had to guess, clad in silken robes of white and gold. His hair was ash-blonde, but his smooth and cleanshaven face reminded Lyonel of Lord Brydan. Now standing just half-a-dozen yards behind the man who claimed to be the King of the Rivers and Hills, Lyonel clenched his fists. _Perhaps I should just kill him right there,_ a dangerous thought occurred in his mind. He could snap the young man's neck before Harrold could do anything. He wouldn't get out of this town alive after that, most likely he wouldn't even get a quick death, but he would've resolved the conflict then and there. Prince Barron had even commanded him to take action if the opportunity presented itself.

 _No,_ Lyonel decided, walking next to King Lucifer and descending on his knees. He wouldn't kill a young man he didn't even know in such a dishonorable manner.

"Do not seek vengeance against your brothers and sisters in Faith, nor for any of your petty and earthly woes. Let instead the Warrior wield you as an instrument of his wrath against the sinners and infidels of this world," the young king spoke, his voice calm and focused. Slowly he shifted his gaze to Lyonel. "The Book of the Warrior, second chapter, third verse," he informed him, to which Lyonel simply responded with a silent nod.

King Lucifer stood up, positioning himself between Lyonel and the statue of the Warrior. Lyonel remained on his knees, looking up to this false king standing in front of him. Lucifer extended his right hand, positioning the diamond ring in his index finger directly in front of Lyonel's face. With a subtle gulp he leaned forward and lightly kissed the ring.

"Rise, Ser Leo of Duskendale," King Lucifer commanded with a tranquil tone, and Lyonel obeyed. Standing up, he slightly towered the king. Lucifer then walked past him, approaching the white marble altar in the middle of the sept. "I read the message written by your master," he spoke nonchalantly, turning to look at Lyonel again. "Lord Damion Darke seems like a smart man, no doubt about that. However, I must wonder if he truly has the courage required to act as an instrument of the Warrior's wrath in this war to come. Worse yet, I cannot be sure if he is truly a friend or if he has just sent you here as some sort of vile ploy against my rule. Cowardice can be forgiven, but treachery will never be tolerated by those who hold true to the Faith."

Lyonel weighed his words for a moment, wondering what the best approach in winning Lucifer's trust would be. "My master is cautious about joining your cause, that is true," he started carefully, studying the king's face as he spoke. "Your Grace, you have to understand, the Justmans have been gone for centuries. Many will find it suspicious that now suddenly one has appeared out of thin air."

"Yet here I am," Lucifer replied, raising his voice just slightly. For a moment there was an angered frown on his face, but it was quickly replaced with a thin smile. "But I understand, of course, it is hard to grasp. However, if your master truly is a man of the Faith, his doubts should vanish the moment he hears that the High Septon himself vows for my legitimacy. He is the gods' voice on earth after all, his word is absolute."

"Of course, Your Grace," Lyonel was quick to concede with a submissive nod. "Yet he is also just a man, a man thousands of miles away from here at that, living in a city that most men of the Riverlands and Blackwater Bay have never visited and never will."

Tense silence followed Lyonel's words, and for a few seconds he feared Lucifer would react badly to them. However, after a moment the young king just let out a stifled chuckle and turned his eyes away from Lyonel. "Over a thousand years ago the first warriors of the Faith came to this land, bringing with them the light of the Seven," Lucifer said quietly, laying his hands softly atop the altar. "This very sept stands as a monument of their triumph. The men who lived here before the coming of the Andals were ignorant of the truth, but same cannot be said of those who still insist clinging onto their false gods today. They are not ignorant, they simply refuse to accept the light of the Seven, rather worshiping their demon trees. Their mere existence rots this blessed land from the inside. In the end it is all quite simple, Ser Leo of Duskendale. Either you and your master stand with me and the Faith Militant in our mission to cleanse this land from its rot, or you stand against us and the Seven."

"I will tell that to Lord Damion, Your Grace," Lyonel responded quietly with a small bow. King Lucifer's lips formed a tiny smile as he took a step closer to Lyonel. "Good," he said with a restrained tone. "However, you needn't return to your master completely empty handed, ser. I know you were not sent here just to confirm that I am indeed more than just a rumor, but also to learn how I plan to succeed in consolidating my rule over the Riverlands."

"That is correct, Your Grace," Lyonel confirmed calmly, and softly the young king laid his right hand on his left shoulder. "I would like to invite you to join me and some of my most trusted councilors for a dinner tonight in the holdfast," he said with a polite tone. "We shall discuss our plans for the future, which I imagine would be of great interest to you."

"I would be honored, Your Grace," Lyonel responded with a respectful nod. Lucifer smiled, removing his hand from Lyonel's shoulder. "I'll send someone to fetch you when it is time," he said, before taking his leave.

Lyonel spent much of the following day in the quarters he shared with Axel, waiting anxiously for the evening ahead. This dinner with King Lucifer and his councilors was why he had come here – to learn the plans of their enemy. After that he could leave, and bring what he had learned back to Lord Brydan in Raventree Hall. _We just have to make it through this one dinner._

Eventually they were fetched by some young servant boy, who led them through the streets to the stout grey holdfast at the large sept's feet. Sundown was near, and dark clouds had gathered to veil the evening sky.

Inside the holdfast Lyonel and Axel were led to the second floor, and in there an airy room with a single long table. At the doors stood knights of the Warrior's Sons, and around the table sat King Lucifer and six men sworn to serve him. Right next to King Lucifer – who was at the head of the table on the other end of the room from Lyonel – was seated Ser Harrold Hill, and on the other side a broad-shouldered man on his early thirties who could only be Lord Robert Vance. He had the same long light brown hair, full beard and grey-green eyes his father had had sixteen years ago. It was almost eerie, like the ghost of Randyll Vance had come to haunt Lyonel from beyond the grave. Robert clearly didn't recognize him though, giving him merely a short and disinterested glance.

Next to Lord Robert sat a stout and fair-haired middle-aged knight, dressed in a velvet doublet checkered white and silver, as well as a grey cape fastened by a golden clasp in the shape of a hook. This had to be Ser Helman Keath, the second son of the cautious and elderly Lord Hoster Keath. In his puffy and reddish face was a haughty expression, and he also paid very little attention to Lyonel and Axel. Next to Ser Helman and closest to them sat a young and fit knight with luscious golden locks and a small pointy chin beard, wearing a tabard in the colors of House Piper. Lyonel didn't know the young man, but he was eyeing the two of them with a sharp and curious gaze.

On the other side with Ser Harrold sat two more of the Warrior's Sons, those being Ser Renfred Sarwyck and an older knight with bushy grey beard and beady brown eyes.

"Your Grace, mylords," Lyonel greeted them all with a deep bow, as did his squire.

"Ser Leo of Duskendale, welcome," Lucifer spoke with a warm and polite tone. "Please, take a seat."

Lyonel sat on the opposite end of the table from King Lucifer, and Axel took the seat between him and the old Warrior's Son. Soon the servants brought in their meals of roasted trout and boiled quail eggs, and poured white wine into their goblets. Taking his first sip, Lyonel noticed the wine was heavily watered down.

"Ser Mathis Piper, I believe you had news for us," Lucifer spoke up, breaking the silence.

The young Piper knight nodded dutifully. "Yes, Your Grace. A response from Lord Osmund Harroway arrived, he has accepted your proposal."

"Fantastic," the young king said with a bright smile. "That means we can begin our march to Harroway's Town soon."

"Is Your Grace to marry Lord Harroway's daughter?" Lyonel asked carefully.

"He is," Ser Harrold responded sternly. "An alliance that will make King Lucifer's hold on the Riverlands even stronger. Be sure to tell that to your master in Duskendale."

"I will," Lyonel conceded with a polite nod. He couldn't pretend to be surprised by House Harroway's involvement in this treasonous war. It was well known they had been left bitter by their losses in the last war, a war before which they had been bonded by ties of marriage to the royal House Teague. It made sense they would attempt to use this opportunity to gain back what they had lost, even if it meant tying themselves to an obviously false king.

King Lucifer went on to explain how all of the southern Riverlands were already practically under his control, and how there were many noble houses beyond just the Harroways in the northern Riverlands eager to pledge their support for him. Lyonel nodded along, hiding his growing concern with smiles and flattery for Lucifer. Ser Harrold also told that they had sent ravens to the chapterhouses of the Warrior's Sons in Lannisport and Gulltown, asking them to send more knights of the Faith Militant to support King Lucifer.

The sun had set by the time the dinner was over, and it had started to rain outside. As they made their back to the streets, Axel yanked Lyonel from his sleeve and pulled him to the side of the alley. "What is?" Lyonel asked with furrowed brows.

"We need to leave this town, immediately," Axel said, nervous urgency in his words.

"Trust me, I want out of here as well, but it will draw far less suspicion if we leave in the morning," Lyonel argued calmly, but Axel shook his head furiously. "No, we need to leave now. Ser Mathis Piper recognized me, I know it."

Lyonel narrowed his eyes and looked the Tully bastard to the eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked calmly, and Axel nodded. "He has visited Riverrun many times in the past, but I had no idea he was connected with the Faith Militant."

Lyonel took in a deep breath and looked around them. The streets were almost empty, the few people on them either being patrolling Poor Fellows or townsfolk making their way home for the night. "Alright, we'll leave now," he decided sternly. They made their way back to their quarters, where they quickly changed their gear and packed up. Then they walked back into the rainy streets of Stoney Sept, heading towards the stables by the northern gates. However, they didn't make it far before Ser Harrold Hill, Ser Renfred Sarwyck, the old Warrior's Son and Ser Mathis Piper confronted them.

"In a hurry to leave, Ser Leo of Duskendale?" the Piper knight asked sharply, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"I would like to begin my journey back to Duskendale as soon as possible, yes," Lyonel responded tensely.

"Well, I won't hold you for long," Ser Mathis said with a faux smile, unsheathing his sword and pointing it towards Axel. "I simply wanted to ask why a knight of Duskendale travels with the bastard of Ser Andar Tully?"

"You're mistaken, ser," Lyonel said hastily, glancing at Axel and gesturing with his hands for Mathis to keep his distance. "This is my squire, Alan."

"Enough of your lies," Ser Harrold Hill now spoke up. He unsheathed his sword as well, and Ser Renfred and the older knight were quick to follow his example. "Who are you, really?"

Lyonel's eyes slowly shifted between the four knights standing in front of him, as he considered his next move. "To the horses," he whispered to Axel, before pushing him to the alleyway to their right and unsheathing his own sword.

"Foolish," Harrold commented coldly. "Piper, go after the boy, we'll take care of this impostor."

Lyonel managed to shoot a quick glance towards Axel, who had by now almost reached the other end of the alley, before turning his attention back to Ser Harrold. The bald and scarred knight was now charging towards him with fury in his eyes. Lyonel deflected his first two harsh strikes, sidestepping the third one to face the older knight who had attempted to sneak up on him from the left. The old knight tried to get him with a thrust aimed at his belly, but Lyonel dodged it and leaped closer to him, with an elegant move slashing the old knight open from under his left arm. With a harrowing scream of pain the old knight stumbled down to the ground.

Quickly Lyonel spun around, but he didn't have enough time to fully dodge the first strike coming from Ser Renfred, and it sliced open his leather jerkin from the lower chest. However, the chainmail underneath it prevented any real injury. Without hesitation Lyonel aggressively rushed towards Renfred, striking his blade out of the way and tackling him to the ground.

Lyonel kicked Renfred's sword away from his hand, and put his blade on the knight's throat. "Stand up," he commanded sternly, and Renfred obeyed, Lyonel's blade constantly an inch away from his throat. Lyonel positioned himself behind Renfred, keeping the Sarwyck knight between him and Ser Harrold.

"Let me and my squire go, and he won't be hurt," Lyonel negotiated, and Harrold Hill lowered his sword. For a moment the large bald man said nothing, merely glaring coldly at Lyonel. He glanced around him, seeing many pairs of eyes observing the situation from the windows, as well as a small patrol of Poor Fellows approaching up the main street from the north. "Ser Harrold, if you do not cooperate, I'll have to kill Ser Renfred," Lyonel spoke with an angered tone. However, a cold smirk formed on Harrold's face, and he raised his sword again.

"No," Renfred muttered weakly as Harrold charged against them. Having no other option, Lyonel slit Ser Renfred's throat and threw his dying body against Harrold, taking the opportunity to ran into one of the narrow side alleys.

Lyonel took a turn to right, then to left, and right again, not looking back. Guided by nothing but a vague sense of direction he ran through the alleys of Stoney Sept, hoping to eventually reach the northern gates. He heard Ser Harrold's screams somewhere in the distance, though he couldn't make out the words. He would have to make it out quickly, because soon every Warrior's Son and Poor Fellow in this town would be looking for him.

After several minutes of wandering through the dark and empty alleys Lyonel finally saw the northern gates. _Thank the gods they are still open._ Near the gates on the square illuminated by torches stood five Poor Fellows in guard duty, one of them being Omer the Old who had welcomed Lyonel and Axel into the town yesterday. However, they didn't seem to be actively looking for him.

Taking in a deep breath, Lyonel emerged from the side alley and began to calmly walk towards the gates. As he got closer one of the Poor Fellows noticed him. "Hey, what's your business here at such a time?" he asked strictly.

"That's King Lucifer's guest from Duskendale," Omer spoke up, giving his brother-in-arms a stern glare. "Can we be of assistance, Ser?" he then asked politely.

"No, thank you," Lyonel responded, keeping his voice as calm and casual as he could. "I simply have some business in the war camp," he explained.

"I see. You're free to go, Ser," Omer said with a respectful nod, which Lyonel stiffly reciprocated. Continuing to walk towards the gates, he could only hope Axel would also find a way out of the town, hopefully with their horses as well.

"STOP HIM!" the thundering voice of Ser Harrold suddenly boomed from behind. Lyonel turned around to see Ser Harrold leading some dozen Poor Fellows towards them down the main street. "THAT MAN IS AN IMPOSTOR AND A TRAITOR, SEIZE HIM NOW!" Harrold commanded, pointing his sword towards Lyonel.

With a confused expression Omer drew his mace, and two of the Poor Fellows aimed their loaded crossbows at Lyonel. If he'd try to run, he would surely be shot. However, just as he thought there was no way out, the sound of hooves striking against the cobbled streets echoed from one of the alleys, and Axel Rivers charged into the square riding his young rounsey named Patch, Lyonel's trusty mount Brie galloping closely behind. As he charged past the Poor Fellows, Axel rode down one of the crossbowmen and struck Omer to the ground with a swing of his sword.

As they reached him, Lyonel quickly climbed atop his horse. Then he heard a whizzing sound and felt an immense pain in his lower back – the other crossbowman had hit him. Grimacing at the pain Lyonel galloped forward by his squire's side, hearing somewhere behind him Ser Harrold screaming. "CLOSE THE GATES!"

However, Lyonel and Axel made it through the gates before they could be closed, galloping into the darkness outside the town's walls and disappearing into the night.

 **End of Act I**


	26. Arthur I (Act II begins)

**Act II: Steel and Fire**

 **Arthur**

Thick fog and foul stench of death lingered in the air, faceless shadows moved all around Arthur, and all he could hear were the shrill sounds of steel clashing with steel and the crazed screams of pain. Clenching tightly to his shining sword he waded forward, every step feeling heavier than the last. He felt like he was suffocating inside his helmet, so he ripped it out of his head and tossed it onto the muddy ground. He took a deep gasp, but the bitter taste of the air merely made him fall on his knees.

Turning his gaze down, Arthur saw a dead man lying on the mud. It was his friend and brother-in-arms, Ser Hallis Hardyng, an expression of horror frozen on his bloodstained face. As he put his shaking hand on his friend's face, the ground began to tremble. He shifted his gaze up, seeing a giant with antlers approaching him through the battlefield. Arthur couldn't move, the mud was swallowing him. The giant raised his warhammer, and as he brought it down lighting struck and blinded Arthur.

Ser Arthur Arryn opened his eyes, sweating and shaking slightly in his bed. With a sigh he raised to a sitting position, feeling a faint pain on his lower back. He rested his forehead on his left hand, taking in a few deep breaths. He glanced towards the window of his chambers, seeing that it was not yet dawn.

It had been years since he had last had nightmares about the Battle of Six Kings, but the message that had arrived from Stoney Sept yesterday had clearly resurfaced some painful memories. Sent by Ser Harrold Hill, it had summoned the Warrior's Sons of Gulltown to aid their brothers in Riverlands to overthrow the rule of the Storm King, and instill a new king. As the captain of Gulltown's chapterhouse, Ser Arthur would hold a council regarding the issue come the morrow.

Since falling back asleep felt like a hopeless pursuit, Arthur decided to go for a walk. He didn't bother to put on his armor, but still donned his rainbow cloak and strapped his sheathed sword on his belt. He grabbed and lit a lantern and made his way quietly to the cobbled streets of Gulltown.

The chapterhouse was located on the High Street together with Gulltown's grandest sept, just below the Grafton Keep and overlooking the rest of the port city tucked around the narrow bay. Gulltown was quiet and beautiful at night, and the sea glimmered slightly under the light of the moon and stars. In the distance far beyond the city walls to the east, north and west could be seen white and jagged peaks stabbing the indigo sky.

With a tired sigh Arthur leaned on the stone railing of the High Street, below which was a nearly twenty feet drop to the tiled roofs of the lower streets. Gulltown had been a home to him ever since he first joined the Faith Militant at the age of twenty, over fifty years ago. During those fifty years he had defended Gulltown against Northmen during one of their last aggressions in the War Across the Water, traveled to Oldtown three times to give his oaths to the High Septon – the latest of those visits nineteen years ago when he was made a captain – and sixteen years ago he had fought beside the last Teagues against the Blackwood rebels and the Storm King. He had already thought himself old back then, but now he was on his early seventies and lacked any sense of adventure or hunger for glory he had once had. In truth Arthur had wished to live the rest of his days here in peace, away from the wars of Westeros. _It seems the gods wish to test me once more._

Seeing the first hints of dawn creep up to the eastern skies, Ser Arthur decided to make his way to the meeting hall of the chapterhouse. There he lighted candles around the seven granite pillars encircling the round room, and took his place in the middle, waiting for the knights of the Warrior's Sons to come as invited.

The first to arrive was Ser Eddard Egen, who had served in the Warrior's Sons nearly as long as Arthur and was one of his seven lieutenants. He was a stout and broad man on his late sixties, with a frizzy grey-white beard and a thin hair in the same color. Arthur and Eddard had fought side-by-side in the Riverlands, together with Ser Hallis Hardyng who fell in the Battle of Six Kings. The three of them had known each other since childhood, and Arthur had considered Hallis the best friend he ever had.

"Arthur, I thought you were still in bed when I didn't see you at the mess hall," Eddard said with a thin smirk, which Arthur reciprocated.

"If only," he responded calmly. "My days of oversleeping are firmly in the past, I'm afraid."

"Well, no matter how old you are you still need to eat," Eddard remarked with a small chuckle, but in his green eyes was a look of genuine concern.

"I will break my fast once the meeting is done, Ned," Arthur promised to his friend. He had never had much of an appetite, which was perhaps the reason he had remained a lean man throughout his life, but during these past few years it had diminished even more. And now, with nightmares from sixteen years ago creeping into his mind again and making his stomach turn, Arthur could hardly even think about eating.

Eddard looked like he was about to ask something, but just then the doors opened again and four more of Arthur's lieutenants walked in. Ser Selmond Hunter was a dour and dutiful man on his early fifties, with a long and gaunt cleanshaven face, sharp blue eyes, a beak of a nose and slightly receding dark brown hair. There were rumors that he had ambitions of rising to the position of captain once the seat would become vacant, but that was something Arthur didn't want to think about.

Ser Lambert Stone was a tall and muscular man on his mid-thirties, with long and dark slicked-back hair, shadow of a beard, sharp facial features and sullen brown eyes. He had been born a bastard of some Royce knight, and had joined the Warrior's Sons shortly after the last war in Riverlands.

Ser Alan of the Fingers was a smiling and carefree man on his late twenties, with a short blonde hair, close-cropped beard across his strong jaw, broad face and small blue eyes. He had been a lowborn hedge knight before joining the Warrior's Sons six years ago, and he was one of the most skilled with both sword and lance from the knights under Arthur's command.

Lastly, Ser Perros Hawick was a stern and humorless man on his early forties, with haggard face, bald head, bushy dark beard, one grey eye and a gruesome old scar running over where his left eye had once been. In his youth he had served the Teagues, but after their fall he had exiled himself to the Vale of Arryn and joined the Warrior's Sons in Gulltown.

They all gave Arthur a respectful bow. "Ser Arthur, may I ask what the cause for this meeting is?" Ser Selmond asked with a stale and formal tone. "You will learn soon enough, Ser Selmond," Arthur answered smoothly. "Once all our brothers are present."

Knights poured in as small groups for the following minutes, until all hundred-and-four were present. Twenty years ago the chapterhouse of Gulltown had boasted nearly three hundred Warrior's Sons, but the last war had heavily thinned their numbers. Only twenty-one out of the two hundred who had ridden to Riverlands sixteen years ago ever returned to Gulltown, and some of them did so as invalids no longer capable of fulfilling the duties of a knight.

Among the last to enter the meeting hall were the freshest of Arthur's lieutenants, Ser Gareth Grafton and Ser Osbert Shett. They were both young noblemen on their mid-twenties, born and bred in Gulltown. Gareth was a boyishly handsome, tall and thin fourthborn son of Lord Gulian Grafton, whereas his good friend Osbert was a robust and bearded second son of Lord Morgan Shett. They had both joined the Warrior's Sons three years ago, neither had seen real war, and Arthur suspected they hadn't given their oaths to the Faith Militant out of any genuine will to serve the gods, but rather in an attempt to find glory and status otherwise denied from them as fourth- and secondborn. However, Arthur had done his best to groom them to serve and command regardless of the purity of their motives – the Warrior's Sons needed every knight they could get.

"Let us begin with a short prayer," Arthur announced to the hundred rainbow-cloaked knights surrounding him. "We ask the Father to judge us fairly," he began, and the knights joined him in a choir. "We ask the Mother to grant us mercy. We ask the Warrior to give us the courage to be righteous. We ask the Maiden to protect the virtue of the innocent we guard. We ask the Smith to lend us his strength to fulfill our duties. We ask the Crone to show us wisdom in times of confusion. We ask the Stranger to keep us from untimely grave. We pledge our swords, and our hearts, for the Seven."

A short moment of silence followed the prayer, and Arthur let his gaze soar over the solemn faces of the knights under his command, while gently stroking his white as snow beard. The silence was broken by Ser Gareth Grafton, who stepped forward and gave Arthur a respectful nod before speaking up. "Ser Arthur, I believe you summoned us here to tell about the message you received yesterday."

"I haven't forgotten, Ser Gareth," Arthur responded with a thin smile, receiving some mild chuckles from the crowd of knights. He then pulled the piece of parchment from his satchel, once again laying his eyes on the crude handwriting of Ser Harrold Hill. "The message was sent by our brothers in Stoney Sept," he announced with a loud and serious tone, handing the parchment to Ser Eddard Egen. "It is a call to arms, a plead for the Warrior's Sons of Gulltown to join our brothers in Riverlands, to overthrow the godless rule of the Storm King and instill a new King of the Trident. A king named Lucifer Justman."

Arthur heard some gasps and confused murmurs from the crowd, and then Ser Lambert Stone spoke up. "The Justman line died out centuries ago," he said with a frown.

"Ser Harrold claims that the High Septon vouches for the legitimacy of this King Lucifer," Ser Eddard said, having read the letter and now handing it to Ser Lambert who stood next to him.

"Then there is no disputing it, His High Holiness is the gods' voice on earth," Ser Selmond stated with a decided tone.

"Let us not forget what happened last time we marched to Riverlands," said Ser Marston of Wickenden, one of the few veterans of the last war still amongst their ranks. "Not to mention back then we marched to support an unquestionably rightful king in his efforts to defeat a rebellion. Now Ser Harrold asks us to pledge our swords for some pretender none of us have even heard of before."

"The last war was indeed costly, and I too have my doubts about this supposed Justman king," Arthur stated calmly, taking in a deep breath. "However, it is as Ser Selmond says. If the High Septon has deemed this King Lucifer legitimate and righteous, it is not our place to question his judgement."

"Justman or not, as the Warrior's Sons we have a duty to back a king faithful to the Seven over the godless usurpers who now reign over the Riverlands," Ser Perros Hawick declared with zealous wrath in his words. Arthur gave the one-eyed riverman a small approving nod, even if he suspected that Perros' fervor was mostly fueled by his desire to avenge his former masters.

"Ser Perros speaks truly," Ser Eddard said sternly, now looking Arthur to the eyes. "We must answer this call. However, how many men shall ride, and who will lead them?"

"I will lead," Arthur declared, his words hollow and chills going down his spine as he spoke them. It brought him no joy or pride, but it had to be done. "It is my duty as your captain."

For a moment no one said anything, until Ser Gareth stepped forward again. "Ser Arthur, you have served the Faith Militant dutifully for a long time, no one can deny your valor and distinctive career, and because of that no one could blame you for passing this war," the Grafton knight spoke with a polite tone. "It would be my honor to lead the Warrior's Sons to this war in your stead."

Arthur narrowed his eyes and took a step closer to Gareth. "Do you believe me so old and weak that I can no longer raise my shield, Grafton?" he asked sternly. Gareth gulped and glanced around himself nervously, clearly surprised by Arthur's response. "No, ser," he then managed to mutter.

"I am a knight still, and while my years of prime are certainly far behind, I assure all of you that I still have the strength and wits to fight and command," Arthur bellowed with all the strength he could muster in his voice, drawing the full attention of every man in the room. "I will ride to Riverlands, and with me shall ride seventy-six knights of this chapterhouse. Ser Selmond Hunter, you will remain in charge here while we are gone. I and the rest of my lieutenants shall each choose ten knights to ride with us." Ser Arthur Arryn drew his sword and raised it towards the ceiling of the hall high above him. "To war, for the Seven!"

All hundred-and-four rainbow-cloaked knights also drew and raised up their swords. "For the Seven!" they roared in unison.


	27. Barron III

**Barron**

It was a calm and cloudy afternoon, and Prince Barron Durrandon sat atop his horse on the northern banks of the Blackwater Rush, some forty miles to west from where the river met with Blackwater Bay. Quietly he watched as the knights, squires, freeriders, sellswords and infantrymen who had followed him from the Stormlands slowly but surely waded their way across the river. Blackwater Rush was a deep and swift river with treacherous currents, but in this spot a safe crossing was possible if slow for an army, so long as they wouldn't be harassed. Meanwhile some of the noble lords and their closest servants along with certain arms, gear and equipment were brought over the river with a ferry.

The troops led by the young Buckler brothers Robin and Barristan, as well as those led by Lord Hugh Hasty were already on the northern banks, while Lord Edgar Fell was currently leading his men-at-arms across the river. On the southern banks still were the troops of Lord Jaremy Errol, Ser Tyler Wendwater, Ser Yohn Farring and Lord Nestor Follard, as well as most of the hedge knights, freeriders and sellswords who had joined them during the march from Bronzegate to Blackwater Rush. Nigh three-thousand men strong they were now, but it still wasn't enough – they needed the troops of Lord Darklyn and his vassals.

During the Age of Heroes these lands had been ruled by Darklyn kings, but ever since the coming of the Andals they had been continually disputed between larger kingdoms. Sometimes the lords of Blackwater had bowed to River Kings and sometimes to Storm Kings, occasionally even to the Gardeners if some records were to be believed, but they were always on the fringes of whichever kingdom they belonged to, and mostly left to their own devices.

Barron's great-grandfather King Arlan the Avenger had been the one to bring Blackwater Bay under Durrandon rule once again, solidifying it by marrying his daughter Princess Aladale with the Darklyn lord. The grandson of that lord, Renly Darklyn, was now the Lord of Duskendale. That made him second cousin to Barron, but the Durrandon prince was unsure how much Lord Darklyn valued the kinship between them. Nonetheless Lord Renly had aided King Arlan in his conquest of Riverlands, by seizing Maidenpool and Harroway while the Storm King lifted the siege of Raventree Hall. Maidenpool had surrender at once, but the people of Harroway had been fiercely loyal to the Teagues, and Lord Renly had made them suffer for that loyalty. A bloody massacre had befallen the town as the Darklyn troops had sacked it, and it was said Lord Renly himself had been among the most enthusiastic in putting the townsfolk to sword and raping their daughters. Those events had given the man a dark reputation, as well as the moniker Butcher of Harroway.

Barron turned around and rode to the camp they had began to erect to a field couple hundred yards north of the river, between the woods in the east and the rugged road in the west. That road would take them to Hayford, Rosby, Stokeworth, and finally Duskendale.

Dismounting his horse, Barron saw Dowager Queen Shana approaching him. "Prince Barron," she greeted him softly, to which he responded politely. "Your Grace."

"Would you join me for a modest lunch?" Shana asked, and Barron gladly accepted. They fetched mead and soup from one of the cookfires and sat down on some mossy rocks near the woods.

"Where is Arya?" Barron asked, just a hint of concern in his voice.

"She wanted to go explore the forest," Shana answered with a carefree tone. "Worry not, I tasked five knights and their squires with guarding her."

"Knights you trust, I hope," Barron said after taking a sip of the ale, to which Shana nodded calmly. "Of course."

For a moment they sat there in silence, just eating and listening to the sounds of the nature around them. Eventually Shana broke the silence. "Arya tells me you want us to stay in Duskendale until the war is done," she said quietly. Barron nodded.

"With thugs of Faith Militant about, travel won't be safe in Riverlands," he stated sternly. "And I would rather not bring Princess Arya anywhere near a battle. Or you for that matter."

"I understand," Shana said with a sigh, a plaintive look in her eyes. "You've been by Brydan's side all these years. Tell me, what kind of a man has my baby brother grown into?"

Barron took in a deep breath, finishing his mead and putting down the mug before answering. "Brydan is smart, kind and eager to do his duty. He enjoys reading and riding, and though not a great warrior he can hold his own with a sword. However, I don't think there is the kind of fire in him that Lord Roderick had. He will do his duty as Warden of Riverlands, and I believe he will do it well, but he won't be as loved and respected by the river lords or the common folk as his father was."

Shana nodded to Barron's words, a knowing look in her eyes. "Even when he was a kid, I could see Brydan was different from father," she admitted calmly. "After the war, my greatest fear was that my uncles would push their authority over him, make him their puppet. I would often voice these concerns to Arlan, but he always assured me that you would make sure that wasn't going to happen."

"And so I have, Your Grace," Barron said with a small but proud smile. "I've kept both Ronas and Robert in line whenever they've attempted to overreach their influence. Against Ronas' advice I also started to involve Brydan in council matters since he was no older than ten. The boy was eager to learn, and I saw no reason to not let him listen and learn as we governed the land. Like I said, I believe he will play his part well, even if he doesn't have the makings of a king like his father did."

"As someone who sat beside a great king for nearly two decades, I will gladly give what advice I can to aid Lord Brydan," Shana promised, her voice determined and in her green eyes an invigorated gaze. Barron smiled. Back in Storm's End the Dowager Queen had told him she felt without a purpose after Arlan's death, and the old prince was happy to see that she had now seemingly found one.

Next day they continued their march and made it to the modest castle of Hayford, where Lord Ryger Hayford warmly welcomed, feasted and housed them for the night. In the morn they once again pushed on, now joined by Lord Ryger's nineteen-year-old son and heir Ser Erwin Hayford, and thirty of Hayford's knights, squires and mounted men-at-arms. It took half-a-day for them to reach Rosby. It was a stout dun-colored stone castle atop a low green hill, a small village stood at its feet, and all of it was surrounded by golden fields of wheat and barley, which swayed softly in the summer wind.

Before reaching the castle they were approached by a small convoy of riders led by Ser Owen Rosby, a large bald man on his early forties, with a thick and bushy brown beard, round reddish face and the frame of a warrior. Owen had already been a fierce warrior sixteen years ago, and Barron could see by simply looking at the man that he had only grown stronger and fiercer since.

"Your arrival is most welcome, Prince Barron," Ser Owen told him with a deep bow. He then escorted Barron, Shana and Arya to the castle ahead of the rest of their host. At the courtyard they were welcomed by Lord Wallace Rosby himself, a wrinkled and corpulent man with a shaggy white beard that reached his chest and a mostly bald blotchy head with some few thin white locks of hair remaining. At the age of sixty-four he was three years Barron's senior, but by the looks of them one could've thought they were separated by two decades. Barron remembered Wallace as a laughing and carefree drunkard, but right now he looked uncharacteristically stern.

"Your highness," the Lord of Rosby greeted them with a respectful bow. Then he took a step closer to Prince Barron. "Prince Barron, we should discuss in private," he whispered with a serious look in his pale blue eyes. "Immediately."

"As you wish, Lord Rosby," Barron agreed with furrowed brows, wondering what could be so urgent. "Lead the way."

Wallace and Owen led Prince Barron to the solar in the second floor of the keep, where they sat around a long table and Wallace commanded the servants to pour wine for all three of them.

"I know you've come here because of the troubles in Riverlands, Prince Barron," Lord Wallace said with a sigh, taking a first sip of the wine.

"I have indeed," Barron admitted sternly, shifting his gaze between the two Rosby men. "Your liege lord Renly Darklyn is a vassal of the Storm King, and now the Storm King requires his aid. The Faith Militant threatens the Riverlands, the Warrior's Sons have crowned a pretender king in Stoney Sept, several river lords may be in league with them, and just recently the Poor Fellows took over Fairmarket," he listed all the causes for concern, to which Wallace Rosby nodded understandingly.

"I've heard of all this, yes," he said, tapping his fingers nervously on the table. "However, Blackwater Bay has troubles of its own right now."

Barron narrowed his eyes and frowned, clenching his goblet tightly. "What kind of troubles?" he asked sternly. Lord Wallace gulped and turned his gaze down, considering his words for a moment before speaking up. "There is a… conflict, between House Darklyn and House Staunton."

Aggressively Barron gulped down the rest of his wine and thumped down the goblet. "A conflict," he echoed with cold fury in his words. "Last I heard there was to be a wedding between the Darklyns and Stauntons."

"There was a wedding, your highness," Owen said calmly. "Lady Emberlei, the granddaughter of Lord Renly, married Ser Jonos Staunton, the grandson of Lord Morgan Staunton. That was almost a year ago though. The year that followed hasn't been kind."

"Some three months after the wedding Ser Merret Staunton, son and heir of Lord Morgan, died while crossing the Blackwater Bay," Wallace started grimly. "Together with his wife Lady Genna he was sailing to Sharp Point to visit his father-in-law, Lord Devan Bar Emmon. However, in Gullet their ship was set upon by a pirate crew. Merret died protecting his lady wife, who was then captured by the pirates and ransomed for Lord Bar Emmon."

"So, pirates killed Ser Merret," Barron said with a frown. "What does that have to do with Lord Darklyn?"

"The captain of that pirate crew was a man who goes by the name Robin Darksails, an infamous bastard son of Lord Renly," Wallace responded, a joyless smirk on his face. "He has been a nuisance on the Blackwater Bay for almost a decade now, but never before has he slain a nobleman like that. Lord Staunton of course demanded Lord Darklyn to pay reparations for what his bastard son had done, as well as to capture and bring the pirate to face justice. Renly however merely stated that he had disowned the bastard long ago and needn't pay for his crimes, as well as noting that this particular crime happened on the waters of House Bar Emmon and not Darklyn's. He even japed that Ser Merret had been a fool to throw away his life in combat when the pirates clearly just wanted to sell him for ransom as they did with Lady Genna. Safe to say Lord Morgan didn't take the insult lightly, and holding Lord Renly's granddaughter as hostage he felt safe sending his men to raid the Darklyn lands, claiming they were collecting a debt owed to him. Those raiding parties were led by Ser Egbert Staunton, Morgan's second son, who eventually was ambushed and captured by Ser Edric Hollard, Lord Renly's son-in-law. So, now Morgan holds Renly's granddaughter, Renly holds Morgan's son, and both refuse to budge. That is the stalemate we've been faced with for nearly half-a-year now."

"And none of you thought to report this to Storm's End?" Barron asked with a frustrated tone. This was a mess, and the last thing he needed right now.

"Lord Renly forbid us from doing so," Wallace explained with a sigh, a tired and sheepish look in his old eyes. "He said there was no need to get the Storm King involved, and I am not a man to defy the orders of my liege lord."

For a moment no one said anything, as Barron silently pondered this situation and how to resolve it. With an ongoing conflict between Darklyns and Stauntons he couldn't hope to amass any forces from these lands to march to Riverlands.

"Crackclaw Point," Barron suddenly spoke up, and the Rosbys gave him questioning looks. "The houses of Crackclaw Point, they've sworn to serve the Storm King as well, are they at all involved in this mess?" he asked sternly. Wallace shook his head, but the look in his eyes was a grim one. "Not this one, no," he said with a sigh.

"What do you mean 'not this one'?" Barron asked tensely.

"The houses of Crackclaw Point also have their issues with Lord Renly," Ser Owen said dryly. "You see, a couple years back a Valyrian pirate lord named Aelor Celtigar settled on the Crab Isle. Crab Isle happens to also be claimed by House Crabb, and once this pirate lord began to build a fort on the isle Lord Crabb sent his men to fend him off. They failed to do so however, and in retaliation Aelor raided dozens of villages on the coasts of Crackclaw Point. Lords Crabb, Brune and Hardy then sent messengers to Duskendale, asking Lord Renly's aid in driving Aelor Celtigar back to the seas he came from. Renly declined them however, most likely because Lord Celtigar has been paying regular and sizable tributes to him ever since first settling on Crab Isle."

Angrily Prince Barron stood up from his seat and slammed his fist on the table. "Damn Lord Renly and his follies," he cursed furiously. "I will go meet the fool myself and put an end to this madness!"


	28. Ellyn III

**Ellyn**

It was a cloudy morning, leaves of the godswood rustled in the wind, and Lady Ellyn stood once again before the dead heart tree. Lord Brydan had left yesterday, leading an army of nearly thousand men to retake Fairmarket. With Brydan had ridden three fourths of his household guards, including their captain Ser Dennis Deddings, some two-hundred levied troops from the Blackwood lands, Ser Emmon Shawney with the couple dozen men-at-arms he had brought with him when escaping from Fairmarket, Ellyn's uncle Ser Andar Tully with over three hundred swords and spears from Riverrun, Ser Horas Bracken with two hundred and fifty swords and spears from Stone Hedge, and Lord Tommen Wayn with nearly a hundred swords and spears from the Wayn Keep, as well as Ellyn's younger brother Errol and his friend Jon Bigglestone. Ellyn meanwhile had been left in charge of Raventree Hall, together with Ronas Blackwood, Ser Uthor Wayn, Maester Joseth and Olyvar Chambers. Sleeping alone in the bed she usually shared with her husband, Ellyn had again dreamt of the Old Gods, weirwoods, ravens and death. This time she had found Brydan's dead body leaning against the weirwood, a sword driven through his back and ravens pecking out his eyes. That was when she had woken up and felt drawn to the godswood again.

"If there is something you want me to do, tell me," Ellyn demanded sternly from the white tree, staring into the red eyes of the ancient face carved onto it. There was no answer, but the wind. _I'm a fool,_ Ellyn thought and shook her head. Her husband was riding to battle, and she was obviously concerned for him. It was only natural her dreams reflected this. "Please, old gods, allow Brydan to survive and come back safely," she prayed quietly.

Ellyn heard approaching steps from behind her, knowing even without looking that it was Amabel Wayn coming for her morning prayer. "Have you seen dreams again, mylady?" the old woman asked calmly as she arrived at the weirwood.

"No," Ellyn lied with a sigh, keeping her eyes on the heart tree. "I simply came to pray for my husband's safe return."

For a moment the two of them stood there in complete silence, side-by-side before the eyes of gods. "Mylady," Amabel then spoke up, a concerned look in her eyes. "About that dream you had earlier…"

"I do not wish to talk about it," Ellyn was quick to cut off the old woman. Amabel nodded humbly. "I understand, mylady, but these things should be taken seriously. It is in our dreams that the Old Gods…"

"Did you not hear me, old hag?" Ellyn raised her voice now, glaring furiously at the old woman, who was startled by her harsh words. "Excuse me," Ellyn muttered and stormed out of the godswood before Amabel could speak up. As soon as she reached the inner courtyard, she regretted her behavior. She was a noble lady, and she was supposed to act with dignity and politeness towards every man and woman in the household. And worst of all, she recognized that her reaction had been spurred by fear. She feared that Amabel was right, that her dreams were a warning from the Old Gods that something terrible was to befall her husband. _But what could I do about it?_

She spent most of the day that followed in her chambers, reading a book she had brought with her from Riverrun. It was a silly fairytale, about Florian the Fool and his beautiful maiden Jonquil. Ellyn had grown past believing in such stories years ago, but reading it took her mind off the stresses of the present and took her back to the lazy and careless days of her childhood in Riverrun with her friends and brothers. She was pulled back to the present from those memories four hours past noon, when Maester Joseth came to call her for a council meeting.

The maester led her to the lord's solar in the third floor, where Ronas, Uthor and Olyvar were already waiting for them. Ronas was holding a letter in his hands, tossing it in front of Ellyn as she sat down. Wordlessly she opened the scroll, noticing it was a message from Trident Hall, written by Lord Robert Blackwood. "So, Lord Osmund Harroway is amassing troops in his town," Ellyn said as she had read the letter.

"We should command Robert to attack and seize Harroway now, before Lord Osmund can join forces with the Faith Militant and Lucifer the Liar," Ronas spoke strictly, his tone authoritative and in his green eyes a stern glare.

"Eliminating the threat in Harroway would benefit us greatly, my lady," Ser Uthor Wayn voiced his support for Ronas, his tone much softer.

"But can Lord Robert muster enough men to take Harroway?" Maester Joseth asked with a concerned tone. "If he fails, Trident Hall will be left with weakened defenses. That is what they want, they want the castle that was once the seat of the Teague kings."

"Robert will not fail," Ronas insisted stubbornly. "Besides, what do you think will happen to Trident Hall if we allow the Harroways to join forces with the Faith Militant and their false king?"

"Perhaps we should wait until Lord Brydan returns from Fairmarket," Olyvar Chambers suggested calmly. "Then he can combine forces with those of Lord Robert, and they may seize Harroway's Town together."

"That would improve our odds of succeeding," Uthor conceded, but Ronas shook his head furiously. "By the time Brydan is done with Fairmarket it might be too late," he argued angrily. "This is war, and you do not win wars with inaction. If we continue to watch meekly as our enemies keep assembling all around us, we are doomed. Maester Joseth, send a raven to Robert and tell him to seize Harroway as soon as he can."

"Need I remind you that you are not the Lord of Raventree Hall, Ronas Blackwood?" Ellyn spoke up, keeping her voice calm but firm. "Nor are you the Warden of Riverlands. Brydan is, and while he is gone, he has trusted me to speak for him."

Ronas narrowed his eyes and stared at Ellyn, anger and frustration oozing from his glare. "And do you oppose what I said, Lady Ellyn?" he asked tensely.

"I do," Ellyn responded calmly. "You say that wars are not won with inaction, but more often than not they are lost with recklessness. With Lord Robert holding the Trident Hall we have a firm foothold in the eastern riverlands, a foothold I believe we should not be so eager to risk losing."

"And what do you know of war, girl?" Ronas spat, not even attempting to veil his aversion towards her.

"She is the Lady of Raventree Hall, Lord Ronas," Maester Joseth calmly but tensely reminded the man.

"I do not claim to have any experience in war personally," Ellyn admitted calmly. "However, nor am I some foolish girl who knows nothing of what she speaks of. My lord father Everan Tully fought beside his lord father and your noble brothers in the last war, and he has told me about it many times. I was also tutored in history by Maester Norman in Riverrun, his lessons including many wars of the past. However, more importantly I think it would be improper of us to make such a crucial decision behind Lord Brydan's back. What I suggest instead is that we send a raven to Trident Hall and ask Lord Robert to muster his troops but stay put for now. We should also send a rider to bring this news to Lord Brydan in Fairmarket, so that he may make the decision of how to proceed himself. Do any of you object?"

For a moment tense silence lingered in the room, until Ser Uthor Wayn broke it by clearing his throat. "I believe Lady Ellyn speaks wisely," the elderly master-at-arms stated calmly, and Maester Joseth and Olyvar Chambers were quick to voice their agreement.

"So be it," Ronas said quietly, standing up from his seat and staring at Ellyn with cold and bitter eyes. "Let us pray you have not just doomed us, girl." With these words he stormed out of the solar.

"Be patient with him, mylady," Maester Joseth said with a small sigh. "He wants what's best for this land and for your lord husband just as much as you do, he just…"

"Doesn't like me," Ellyn concluded dryly. "Worry not, maester, I can cope with some mild disdain from our stubborn friend, so long as he remembers his place."

Lady Ellyn spent the rest of the day in her chambers, bathing, reading and socializing with her handmaiden Tanya Lychester. She listened to her young friend talk about how she had helped the kennel master's daughter with taking care of a new litter of puppies, but her mind wandered to the war that was threatening to engulf the Riverlands, and the recurring nightmares about her husband dying. Thankfully there were no nightmares that night.

The war however could not be forgotten, as shortly after noon Lord Petyr Mallister arrived at Raventree Hall with a convoy of half-a-dozen knights. Ellyn, Ronas and Maester Joseth welcomed the Mallister lord in the courtyard. Lord Petyr was a man on his late thirties, and a very average man in most regards. He was fairly short, didn't look particularly strong or imposing, had a plain and ordinary face, and the look in his blue-grey eyes was unassuming. His dirty blonde hair was cut short, and his weak jaw was covered by a short beard of a slightly darker shade. However, if there was anything exceptional about Petyr Mallister's appearance it was his extravagant attire. He wore a fine indigo velvet doublet slashed with silver satin, a silver eagle brooch, a cloth-of-silver cape lined with black fur that reached all the way to his black leather boots, moleskin gloves, dark satin breeches and a leather belt studded with silver and amethysts. He also carried in a jeweled scabbard by his hip, and in it a longsword with a guard decorated with amethysts and a silver pommel depicting an eagle's head. _A wealthy man,_ Ellyn deduced from what she saw.

After dismounting his grey destrier with a dark mane and approaching them, Lord Petyr fell on his knee and laid down his sword at Ellyn's feet. "I've come as summoned, to pledge my sword and service to Lord Brydan of House Blackwood, the Lord of Raventree Hall and the Warden of Riverlands under the Storm King."

"You may rise, Lord Mallister," Ellyn ordered calmly, and so the man did. "As you can see Lord Brydan is not present at the moment, because…"

"Because he is retaking Fairmarket," Petyr concluded with an affable smile. "I know, mylady. I sent a dozen of my knights to aid him, and an army to support his cause is amassing at Seagard as we speak. I intend to pledge my service to him in person when I get the chance, but I hoped for now it would suffice that I swear my allegiance in front of you, fair and gracious Lady Blackwood. As well as Lord Ronas of course," he bowed respectfully for both of them.

Ellyn gave the man a polite nod, and Ronas grunted approvingly as well. "We are most pleased to accept your service, Lord Mallister," Ellyn said softly, giving him a sweet smile. "These are precarious times, and we will have need for every sword we can get."

"Yes, I have been quite shocked by the suddenness of this conflict, mylady," Petyr spoke with a distressed tone, taking off his gloves and putting his sword back to its scabbard. "I was wondering if I could have a discussion with you in private, mylady. You are the one in charge here in the absence of your husband, are you not?" the Mallister lord glanced quickly at Ronas as he asked this.

Ellyn gulped subtly as she saw the displeased expression on Ronas' face, but nodded regardless. "Yes, mylord," she answered tensely. "And yes, I would gladly discuss further with you in private. Would you follow me to the lord's solar?"

Leaving Ronas and the maester behind, Lady Ellyn and Lord Petyr made their way to the solar and sat about the table. For a moment there was a tense silence between them, until Petyr chuckled awkwardly and spoke up. "I assumed you would have questions for me, Lady Blackwood."

"And which questions did your lordship expect?" Ellyn asked smoothly, studying the man's face with her eyes. He seemed like a harmless man, polite and friendly, but Ellyn knew there was often more to a man than could be seen on the surface. And Lord Petyr Mallister had taken his sweet time to declare his support for Brydan in this emerging conflict, as well as absenting from his wedding with Ellyn earlier.

"I thought you might want to know why it took this long for me to declare my support," Petyr suggested with a thin smile, looking slightly ashamed.

"We had our doubts about your loyalty, suspecting that you might side with the Faith Militant," Ellyn stated truthfully. Lord Petyr gave her a humble nod. "And you were right to have those doubts, mylady," he confessed, taking in a deep breath. "My noble father remained loyal to King Humfrey in the last war when Lord Roderick Blackwood rose into rebellion, and he died fighting against King Arlan in the Battle of Six Kings. After that I had to watch as Durrandon banners were raised in Seagard, banners of a strange king from the other side of Westeros, a king who had killed my father. I am not a particularly faithful man, but I was raised in the light of the Seven. I have two beautiful young daughters, both flowered and suited to marry a high lord, yet Brydan or whoever advised him in the matter chose you instead. So, you may see why I was… tempted, to side against your lord husband in this war to come."

"Indeed," Ellyn admitted calmly. "And what made you change your mind, mylord?"

"Truth be told, it was this pretender king the Faith Militant has rallied around," Petyr responded sourly, his lips forming a thin smirk. " _King Lucifer Justman_ , now that is truly ridiculous. He is a puppet of the High Septon and nothing more. I have no love for the Storm King, I admit that freely, but at least he won this land like a man, with steel and fire. The High Septon thinks he can weave his web across the kingdoms and be the sole ruler of Westeros, all while lurking in his Starry Sept safe from all the fighting. He is a spider with a crystal crown, not a man, and he will not rule over me."

Ellyn smiled contentedly at the Mallister lord's words. "He will not rule over _us_ ," she said, and Petyr reciprocated her smile.


	29. Erich IV

**Erich**

Nightsong was an ancient and strong castle, standing atop a hill with steep and rocky sides. The ancestral home of House Caron was protected by thick outer walls, on its southern and northern sides standing sturdy watchtowers known as the Singing Towers, watching over the vast plains and moors to the north and the imposing mountains looming in the south. At the shadow of the castle to its east was a small pond, and around it a little village.

Near the village a war camp had been erected by the Caron men-at-arms, an army more than a thousand men strong if Erich had to estimate. Now they would be joined by the twelve thousand men strong host led by Prince Baldric Dondarrion. The Durrandon forces had split in Blackhaven, King Ormund leading the larger host of fifteen thousand men to the Boneway, with him the troops of houses Swann, Staedmon, Cole, Lonmouth, Dondarrion, Herston, Mertyns, Bolling, Wagstaff, Morrigen, Musgood, Swygert, Wensington and Connington. With Prince Baldric on the other hand would march the troops of houses Caron, Selmy, Trant, Toyne, Peasebury, Grandison, Cafferen and Horpe. Meanwhile the Stormlander fleet that would attack Dorne from the east had been assembled by houses Tarth, Estermont, Penrose, Rogers, Wylde, Kellington, Gower, Whitehead and Tudbury.

As the troops and camp followers began to erect the camp, Erich rode up the winding pathway to Nightsong's gatehouse with Prince Baldric and his small convoy of noblemen, including Lord Gregor Cafferen, Ser Raymont Horpe, Ser Ralph Horpe, Lord Larys Grandison, Ser Herbert Grandison, Ser Emerick Trant, Ser Arys Selmy, Lord Eddison Peasebury and Ser Samwell Toyne. In the courtyard they were welcomed by Lord Prestan Caron, his wife Lady Anya, and their two sons and two daughters, youngest of them a boy of five and the oldest of them a girl of fourteen. Erich knew that just two years ago there had been one more, a boy who would've by now been a young man of seventeen. The Caron family kneeled and bowed their heads humbly before Prince Baldric. "Nightsong is yours, my prince," Lord Prestan spoke with a solemn tone.

"Rise, Lord Caron," the young prince commanded calmly, clearly doing his best to emulate the majesty and authority his grandfather had carried himself with. Baldric was not Arlan, not yet, but Erich thought he nonetheless did fine. Getting up on his feet again the Caron lord towered most other men around him, standing nearly seven feet tall. He was a man on his late thirties, but his bushy red beard streaked with grey made him look a decade older. "You have my sword, and the swords of every man under my command," Prestan Caron promised, in his green eyes a fervent and determined look. "I have long awaited this day."

Lord Prestan Caron had lost more to the Dornishmen than most, even among those who lived in the marches. His eldest son Ronnal had died two years ago on the road to Blackhaven, ambushed by a band of Dornish raiders. Four years before that Erich had seen with his own eyes Prestan's younger brother Ronard Caron fall in battle when they were defeated by the Dornishmen on the Boneway. Long before even that, when Erich had been just a young bastard boy in Griffin's Roost and Dorne was yet to be united by Princess Nymeria, Prestan's sister Kortney Caron had also died in Dorne. Of that story Erich had heard many versions, some in which King Albin the Mad of House Manwoody had tortured Kortney to death in the dungeons of Kingsgrave, others in which she had been captured and killed by some band of outlaws, and some even claimed she hadn't died at all but joined these outlaws never to be seen again. Erich had worked for Lord Prestan a few times in the past, but he had never dared to ask him about his sister.

That night Lord Caron held a feast for the noble lords and anointed knights of the host, or at least for as many of them as could fit the great hall of Nightsong. Prince Baldric sat on the high table together with the Caron family and lords Cafferen, Grandison and Peasebury. Erich on the other hand had to settle for a seat at the lower tables. He was still a bastard after all, and the prince didn't need a bodyguard while feasting. Erich didn't mind of course, he was used to dining in much lowlier places and company than this, and in truth he preferred his current company to those seated at the high table. To his left sat his old friend Ser Trystane Cole, and to his right Ser Merlon Storm, a young and boisterous bastard knight from Gallowsgrey. Directly opposed to them sat the Horpe brothers Raymont and Ralph, as well as the gallant and handsome Ser Arys Selmy.

"So, how many Dornishmen has each of you good sers killed?" Marlon Storm asked with a grin on his broad and stubbly face, clearly already drunk from the wine.

"Not enough," Trystane grunted with a thin smile, to which Marlon howled with laughter. "And what about you, bastard of Griffin's Roost?" he then asked from Erich.

"I haven't counted," Erich responded nonchalantly.

"Come on, give me a rough number," Marlon demanded with a dumb grin on his face. "More than a hundred? Two hundred?"

Erich took a long sip from his cup, looking Marlon to his brown eyes with a deadpan expression. However, before he could give his answer Ralph Horpe spoke up. "The bastard is half Dornish himself," the younger and uglier Horpe brother stated coarsely, the thinnest of mocking smirks under his unkempt brown beard as he stared intensely at Erich. For a moment tense silence took over the table, even Marlon's drunken grin vanishing.

"Aye, I am a bastard son of a Stormlander princess and a Dornish prince. Perhaps you should call me _Prince_ Erich, ser," Erich said unashamedly and forced a brazen smirk on his face. He raised his cup for Ralph and gulped down the rest of his wine without breaking eye contact with the man. Raymont Horpe chuckled lightly at his words, which seemed to immediately relieve the tension around the table. "Apologies for my brother's forwardness, ser. I'm sure he meant no disrespect."

"A man has no say in who sires them, only in what they make of themselves with their own actions," Arys Selmy chimed in with a calm and collected tone. "And Ser Erich has certainly proven himself a true Stormlander with his actions."

"Aye, I'll drink to that!" Marlon roared cheerfully and raised his cup once again. The conversation then shifted to other matters, but throughout the feast Erich noticed Ralph glaring at him.

As the evening was coming to an end, Lord Prestan Caron stood up to hold a speech for them. _Baldric is the one who should speak,_ Erich thought but held his tongue. He couldn't blame the young prince for trusting a more experienced man with the task of rallying the men, but it was still a missed opportunity to establish his authority as their commander.

"Knights of the Marches, knights of the Storm King," Prestan Caron greeted them, just a hint of drunkenness in his words. "It has been an honor to host all of you here in Nightstong tonight, and it will be an even greater honor to once more march to war by your side, this time behind our young and bright Prince Baldric!" The crowd cheered, Erich among them. "I know there are many in this hall who have fought the Dornishmen before, many who have lost something to them. Well, now it is time to take back, to make them pay for all they've taken. I've lost a son, a brother and a sister to the Dornishmen, and more friends than I care to count. Long ago, when I was young and naïve, I allowed myself to hope that perhaps a Dorne united under Princess Nymeria would be more civil, less violent towards its neighbors. However, if anything the protection of that Rhoynar bitch has only made them more arrogant, more audacious in the atrocities they commit against us. After all, what does Nymeria care if her bannermen pillage our lands, murder our people and rape our women? Nothing. So long as these Dornish lords don't oppose her she allows them to act like savages and thieves. Well, now we'll make her care. We won't bring just swords, spears and fire to her precious principality, WE WILL BRING THE FURY OF THE STORM!"

The hundreds of knights in the hall all stood up from their seats and erupted into loud cheers, unsheathing their swords and pointing them towards the ceiling. "Ours is the Fury! Ours is the Fury!" they chanted in the night.

The next day they began their march south to the Prince's Pass, and Erich rode beside Prince Baldric once again. The weather was searing hot during their first day of marching, as the Dornish sun was blazing mercilessly from a clear blue sky. Summer was to end soon, and days like this almost made Erich wish for the long night of the legends. Baldric didn't have much to say, and though he tried to veil it with a steely expression Erich could tell the boy was nervous. This was his first war after all, and he was in charge of some thirteen thousand men. The prince had been well trained and tutored in Storm's End, Erich had no doubt about that, but even that couldn't fully prepare you for war.

"Scouts just returned, so far no sight of the Dornishmen," Prestan Caron came to inform them a couple hours after noon.

"Thank you, Lord Caron," Baldric spoke stiffly, and with a respectful nod Prestan took his leave.

"Nervous, my prince?" Erich asked quietly. Baldric took in a deep breath, before turning to look at him. "Slightly," he admitted, forcing a thin smile on his face.

"You have the best men that Stormlands has to offer around you," Erich calmly reminded the young prince, who bridled at his words. "It's not that I fear for my life," he argued, a tense look in his blue eyes as he stared into the distance. "It's precisely those good men around me, each of them has more experience than I. Yet somehow, I'm the one in charge here. I'm the one whose fault it will be if the fighting turns against us."

Erich nodded sympathetically to Baldric's words. He couldn't claim to have ever had such an enormous responsibility on his own shoulders, not to mention at such a young age. "Well, you've done well so far," he encouraged the boy, who let out a nervous chuckle. "Thanks," he said dryly. "But it's not the courtesies and feasts that I'm nervous about. It's the first battle, and I know it must be drawing near."

"Aye, the Dornish will have noticed us by now, and might attempt to fortify the Prince's Pass," Erich admitted calmly. "However, they'll have to assemble in haste, and the Yronwoods and Wyls will be preoccupied with your father's host in the Boneway. I'd be surprised if the Dornish manage to muster an army even third the size of ours here."

"But there will be more," Baldric stated sharply.

"Indeed," Erich agreed, not seeing any benefit in cushioning it for the young prince. Dorne was a hard land to conquer, and Baldric shouldn't expect no less. "The Daynes will march up the Torrentine and join with the Blackmonts, and Princess Nymeria will lead thousands more from the deserts, coasts and the Greenblood. However, perhaps our fleet will prove itself useful in keeping the Martells busy in the east."

"Do you think it was a good idea?" Baldric asked tensely. "Sending the fleet, I mean."

"Aye," Erich responded with a raised eyebrow. "I'm a bit worried for the men on those ships, sure, but it should definitely buy us more time to seize control over the Red Mountains."

"It was my idea," the prince said, just a hint of pride in his words. "I was the one who suggested it to Ormund."

Erich chuckled softly. "See, you're already proving yourself a cunning commander, my prince."

The following days were no less harsh for the advancing Stormlander army, as the sun kept shining on them with a scorching heat. Erich could only imagine what it was like down on the deserts of Dorne right now. _Last embers of a long summer, autumn will be here soon,_ he told himself as he once again swept a thick layer of sweat from his forehead.

Towards the end of their fourth day of marching the scouts finally returned with news of enemy forces having been spotted, and shortly after the noon of the fifth day they saw the enemy. The Dornishmen had chosen their position smartly – where in most places the Prince's Pass was at least a mile wide, the defenders had fortified a place where stony ridges from both west and east pushed deep into the pass, leaving a gap of merely hundred yards wide. There stood a line of spearmen, their round shields painted in the colors of houses Fowler and Manwoody, and in front of them a line of archers. A scout climbed atop one of the ridges to see how big of a force was behind those first lines of defend, and returned to report there was no more than four-thousand Dornishmen there in total, perhaps three hundred of them mounted.

"We outnumber them three to one," Lord Prestan Caron stated confidently as they began their war council. "They have chosen a good position, sure, but they cannot withhold our cavalry charging against their lines for long."

"Charging head on against a line of spearmen seems ill-advised," said Lord Larys Grandison, a concerned frown on his fleshy face, burned red by the sun.

"And what would be your suggestion, Lord Grandison?" the Caron lord asked frustratedly. "There is no flanking them, any attempt to climb over those ridges will end in catastrophe."

"I say we send our own infantry against them," Raymont Horpe calmly joined the conversation. "We have more men, and more men means more strength. We can push them back from their position."

"You'll be pushing until winter," Prestan dismissed the idea harshly. "We must break through them fast, before more reinforcements arrive from south."

"And what if we charge against them with our cavalry and they refuse to break?" Ralph Horpe asked sharply. "With every failed charge more men and horses will die, and every failed charge will leave those that remain more weakened and fearful. If their line won't break within the first few charges, you will have doomed us."

"It will break," Prestan insisted, now turning towards Prince Baldric. "My prince, this is the action we must take. Give the command, and I will lead the charge myself."

"Give me a moment to think on it," Baldric said with a subtle gulp, glancing at the lords and knights around him. "Go, I'll call you back soon," he commanded. With murmurs they walked away, and Baldric grabbed Erich from his arm before he could go. "I have an idea," he said nervously. "But I want to hear your opinion first."

"Sure, let's hear it," Erich said. Baldric took in a deep breath before speaking up. "I was thinking that… perhaps we could send our infantry against them, as Ser Raymont suggests. However, instead of trying to push through, what if our men would slowly cede ground for the Dornish?"

"What do you mean?" Erich asked with a confused frown, and now a thin smirk formed on the young prince's face. "If our men will slowly back down against their pushing, the Dornishmen will move out of their gap without even noticing, leaving them vulnerable for cavalry charges from the flanks."

For a moment Erich said nothing, just studying the young prince's face with his eyes. _He has been well tutored indeed._ "For this to work, the Dornish will have to fall for your trap," Erich pointed out calmly. "There is no guarantee they will, my prince."

"I know," Baldric admitted with a sigh. "This is why I wanted to ask you."

Erich scratched the stubble on his chin, considering the prince's plan. Much would depend on how eager the Dornishmen would be to pursue the Stormlanders. "You should instruct the infantrymen to insult the Dornish defenders as they engage with them. Tell them to yell obscenities about this land, their women, their princess," Erich advised. "It will make them more emotional, more likely to make a mistake," he explained with a grin as he saw the confused look on the prince's face. "Also, make sure they back down _slowly._ Too fast and the defenders will see what's going on and cease to pursue, and there won't be a second try with this trick."

"But if they are _too_ slow, wouldn't that also give the defenders time to realize what is happening?" Baldric asked sharply, to which Erich shrugged. "I suppose it's about finding the sweet spot between too fast and too slow," he said with a chuckle. Baldric however looked more concerned than amused. "Are you sure we should do this?" he asked quietly.

"That is your decision to make, as the commander of this army," Erich gently reminded the boy, but also gave him an approving nod.

The war council was called back together, and Prince Baldric explained the plan for the lords and knights. Some of them looked impressed by it, others skeptical. None objected however, and so the plan was put to motion.

Two thousand infantrymen led by Ser Ralph Horpe marched towards the defenders, protecting themselves from the volleys of arrows by forming phalanxes. Behind them a thousand Stormlander archers formed two lines, loosing their arrows on the Dornish. As the infantrymen led by Ralph got closer to the defenders, the Dornish archers retreated behind the spearmen. And so, the two infantry forces engaged, and the pushing began.

Erich watched this all from a horseback some three hundred yards away from the fighting. Together with Prince Baldric, Ser Raymont Horpe and Ser Arys Selmy he led the left wing of the cavalry, which was some thousand men strong. On the other side the right wing of the cavalry was of similar size, led by Lord Prestan Caron, Ser Herbert Grandison, Ser Emerick Trant and Ser Samwell Toyne. Between them stood the three thousand infantry reinforcements led by Lord Larys Grandison. The rest five thousand troops acted as a rearguard, led by Lord Eddison Peasebury and Lord Gregor Cafferen.

Sweating inside his helmet, Erich watched wordlessly as the two armies clashed, and listened to the screams and sounds of steel echo in the pass. He held tightly to his lance, his whole body feeling tense and the mount beneath him moving restlessly. It had been six years since he had been in a battle of this size, and those old memories did little to make him feel less nervous now. He glanced at Prince Baldric to his left, seeing a steely and focused expression on the young man's face. _My first duty is to protect him, to give my life to save his if needs be,_ Erich reminded himself.

The Stormlander infantry had at first pushed the defenders back a bit, but now they had begun to slowly cede ground. Yard by yard, the Dornishmen pushed towards their own doom. However, they hadn't come far enough yet to spring the trap.

Erich heard someone say something behind him, he couldn't make out the words, but they were followed with nervous laughter. He saw the prince muttering something to himself, perhaps praying. And all the while the defenders kept pushing further and further from their safe gap. Finally, after what felt like almost an hour, the horn was blown, and the Stormlander infantry began their retreat. Some of them received spears to their backs as they tried to run away, but they had done their job nonetheless – the Dornish defenders were about to be squished between a pincer of steel. Some of them tried to hastily form ranks against the approaching riders, while others tried to retreat to the gap.

"STORM'S END!" Erich heard the young prince screaming beside him as they charged into the disorganized mass of spearmen. Clouds of dust, screams of pain and sounds of breaking bones filled the world for a few seconds, until they had charged through the men and turned around to face them again. The ground was littered with corpses and dying men, most of them wearing Dornish colors. Some had pursued after the retreating Stormlander infantry and were now being crushed by the reinforcements led by Lord Grandison. However, more had made their way back to the gap, and were now hastily trying to reassemble the defensive line with reinforcements of their own.

"CHARGE!" Baldric commanded, pointing his lance towards the gap, and it seemed Lord Caron had the same idea. And so, the two cavalry wings joined into one massive charge, and crushed through the haphazard line on Dornish spearmen. What reinforcements were still left behind them quickly began to retreat towards south, as did their small cavalry.

"Shall we pursue them, my prince?" Lord Caron rushed to ask, but Baldric shook his head. "No need to take the risk," he said with a winded tone. "We have won a great victory here today!"

"BALDRIC THE BOLD!" Yelled some knight, and soon they all began to chant it. "BALDRIC THE BOLD! BALDRIC THE BOLD!" Erich joined them as well, and he saw a wide grin forming on the young prince's face.


	30. Allyria I

**Allyria**

Something strange was going on in Sunspear, and no one seemed to have the time or interest to tell Princess Allyria Nymeros Martell what it was. Sure, she had heard the murmurs about a war, but against whom, and why? Six years ago, when she had been just a ten-year-old girl, there had been a war against the Storm King in the Red Mountains. Before that there had been an Yronwood rebellion, and even before that had been her mother's war of conquest which had unified Dorne under the Martell banner. Allyria's father, Prince Mors Martell, had died in that war, but she remembered nothing of those times.

Princess Nymeria had closed herself inside the council room with her closest advisors every day for the past two weeks. Her consort and Allyria's stepfather, Ser Davos Dayne, had rode to west with a hundred mounted knights almost a week ago. A couple days after that a longship with black sails adorned by white krakens had arrived at the docks of Sunspear, bringing with it a crew of pale and haggard foreigners clad in wool, fur and leather, with axes and swords of iron and steel hanging from their belts.

Right now, Princess Allyria was sneaking through the gardens of the palace to get a glimpse of the captain of that crew, as well as the young man who followed him like a shadow. Quietly she stalked behind the cypresses next to a pool, on the other side of which some dozen yards away from her the two men sat on a stone bench with their backs towards her. Silently she turned one of her ears towards them and concentrated, struggling to make out their words.

"…thinks it's a waste of time," said the younger man, a tall and broad-shouldered lad with dark brown hair that didn't quite reach his shoulders, stubble beard, lean wolfish facial features and icy blue eyes. If Allyria had to guess, he was younger than twenty but still a man grown.

"Well, when has Hakon ever been right?" the captain responded with a sharp smirk. He was a very pale man with long light gray hair, sharp blue eyes and chiseled facial features. Despite the color of his hair the man looked thirty years old at most.

"You think Vyros's plan will work?" the brown-haired man then asked, a frown on his face. For a couple seconds the gray-haired captain remained silent, stroking his clean-shaven jaw pensively. "I think it makes sense at the very least," he finally said, his voice calm and nonchalant. "If his kingdom is to withstand the Valyrian fleets to come he will have to bolster his defenses and find as many allies as he can. There is no more room for petty rivalries. Dagaphos Bluebeard is in the pocket of the Tyroshi and will never share power with Vyros, but the Crimson Prince on the other hand…"

"Is a leader of a slave rebellion, and extremely distrusting of any and all outsiders," the younger man concluded with a cynical tone.

"Spying on our guests, are you, little sister?" a warm female voice behind Allyria spoke, in Rhoynar rather than the common tongue, and immediately she spun around to face her older sister. Princess Sarella Martell was the eldest of the four daughters Princess Nymeria had had with Prince Mors, and the heir apparent to the Principality of Dorne. Having recently had her twenty-first nameday she was a beautiful young woman with olive skin, almond-shaped hazel eyes and dark wavy hair that nearly reached her waist when left untied. The crown princess was dressed in bright orange silks that elegantly fell over her perky breasts and swollen pregnant belly. A little less than a year ago Sarella had married Dywen Uller, the second son of Lord Desmond Uller, and after that it hadn't taken long before she was with a child. She was expected to give birth within about a month.

"No one tells me anything," Allyria hissed, after glancing towards the two foreigners to make sure they hadn't noticed her. "Who even are these people?"

Sarella narrowed her eyes and studied Allyria's face for a moment, before nodding to her understandingly. "Well, let me introduce you to them," she said with a sly smirk, gesturing for Allyria to follow her as she started to make her way towards the guests. Seeing Sarella and Allyria approach them the two men stood up from their bench and bowed to them. "Your highness," they both mumbled.

"Mylords, this is my youngest sister, Princess Allyria," Sarella introduced her with a sweet and polite tone. "Allyria, this is Lord Albion Greyjoy, the leader of the Outcast Company and captain of the Divider, and his second-in-command Fenris Snow."

"A pleasure to meet you, beautiful princess," Albion spoke with a charming and polite tone. Fenris didn't say anything, but he also gave her a respectful nod. Unsure what she was supposed to say, Allyria formed a bright smile on her face as she fumbled for words for a moment. "It is always exciting to meet visitors from faraway places," she finally uttered.

"I only wish our visit came in more pleasant circumstances," Albion Greyjoy softly replied to her, a thin smile on his pale face.

"Well then, time to go speak with Nymeria," Sarella said, and began to lead them out of the gardens and back inside the palace. As they walked Allyria shot her sister with a questioning look, to make sure her presence was welcome, and Sarella gave her a reassuring nod.

The entrance to the council room was guarded by two of Nymeria's royal guards in their wine-red cloaks and gilded scale armors. One of them was Ser Samwell Dayne, a handsome dark-haired knight on his early twenties with attentive lilac eyes and thin lips that were seemingly stuck in a confident smirk. The other one was Ser Boran Sargen, an elderly knight who had served House Martell loyally for two decades before Allyria had even been born. He wasn't particularly famed for his skills or any heroic feats, but for his long and unwavering service he had been granted the rank of commander.

The guards let them past without questions, though Samwell did give Allyria a curious look. Just a couple days ago she had tried to pry from him what was going, but at least then the young knight had claimed to not know much more than she did.

Inside the council room, Princess Nymeria sat on her majestic seat at the head of the long table. The ruling Princess of Dorne was nearing her fiftieth nameday and had given birth to five children, but somehow she still retained much of her grace and beauty. However, even more so than beautiful she appeared strong and regal, a golden circlet adorned with a single ruby resting on her head, her extravagant gown made of dark red silk adorned with yellow gold, and in her light brown eyes a determined look.

Closest to Nymeria was seated the old Maester Olivar in his simple dark robes, who much like Ser Boran had served the Martells since the days they ruled nothing more than a small patch of land on the eastern coast of Dorne. In her childhood Maester Olivar had been like a father to Allyria, and as she had grown a bit older, he had tutored her in a wide range of subjects from reading and writing to history and mathematics. Then there was the mysterious Master Edd, the spymaster of Sunspear. He was an ordinary looking man dressed in simple and mundane clothes in the colors brown, grey and green, his bushy brown beard streaked with grey and his hairline receding. Allyria knew hardly anything about the man, though she did recall her mother once having called him her most valuable servant. A bit further from the Princess was seated Lady Julia Jordayne, a decently comely brunette noblewoman on her late thirties, and most importantly the royal treasurer of Sunspear. Allyria quite liked Lady Julia, having on few occasions spent time with her while visiting the markets of Shadow City or even Planky Town. Usually Ser Davos Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, would also take part in the council as the royal marshal, but in his absence the seat at the opposing end of the table from Nymeria was left empty.

As the guests sat down near that end of the table, Allyria remained standing awkwardly under her mother's strict and inquisitive gaze. "Allyria, what are you doing here?" Nymeria asked with a motherly and authoritative tone.

"I saw her in the gardens and thought she should join us," Sarella explained with her sweet and melodic voice as she took the seat next to Master Edd. "She is a woman grown after all, and your daughter. She deserves to know what is going on."

With a sigh Nymeria nodded to her eldest daughter's words. "Fine, I will allow it," she conceded.

"Thank you, mother," Allyria responded cheerfully, quickly taking a seat between Lady Julia and Albion Greyjoy.

"Newest reports from the Red Mountains tell us that the Storm King has split his forces into two hosts, which now march down both the Boneway and the Prince's Pass," Nymeria began, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. "This would suggest their fleet has also most likely set sail."

"Indeed, Your Grace, we may have no more than some days left before the Stormlander fleet reaches our shores," Master Edd spoke with utter calmness. Allyria's eyes widened in shock – no one had told her about an approaching enemy fleet. The Martells didn't have a fleet of their own, which made Allyria wonder how they could defend themselves against such an attack.

"King Vyros's fleet is assembling at the Broken Arm as we speak, Your Grace," Albion Greyjoy spoke up as if to answer her thoughts, his tone as nonchalant as the look in his blue eyes. "He will fight for you, Your Grace, given that the contract is agreed upon."

"It is," Nymeria said tensely, nodding towards Lady Julia, who then cleared her throat. "We have decided to accept the price of fifteen-thousand pieces of gold that your king has asked for his service," the Jordayne lady spoke with a formal tone. "However, it shall be paid in three installments. First one immediately, second once the threat of the Stormlander fleet has been successfully overturned, and the third six moons after that. We also demand that King Vyros Nahyr will henceforth forbid all the crews sworn to him from ever attacking the coasts of the Principality of Dorne, or to set upon any ship flying the colors of House Martell or any of their bannermen."

"These terms are acceptable," Albion said after just a couple seconds of consideration, turning his eyes to Nymeria again. "However, I would like to remind Your Grace that there was one more thing that King Vyros asked of you for his service, beside the gold."

"The envoy?" Nymeria asked dryly, to which the Greyjoy nodded. "Indeed, Your Grace. He needs someone Rhoynar, to aid him in negotiating an alliance with the Crimson Prince."

"I have men and women suitable for the task in my service," Nymeria answered calmly, but Albion didn't look entirely satisfied. "We were hoping for a royal envoy," he explained with a thin smile. "The Crimson Prince may have been a slave yesterday, Your Grace, but today he considers himself no less a royalty than Vyros or you."

"Unfortunately, it is not possible," Nymeria said strictly. "I rule the Principality of Dorne and right now it is under an invasion by the Storm King – I have no time to act as an envoy in negotiations between pirate kings. An as you can see my eldest daughter is pregnant, she cannot risk such a hazardous voyage so near her labor. Her younger sisters Deria and Mariah are married to two of my noble bannermen and have their own duties to adhere to."

"What about me?" Allyria spontaneously spoke up, receiving a frustrated glare from her mother. "You are too young," she said strictly, which annoyed her. "I am a woman grown," she insisted stubbornly.

"Youngest daughter would fit the purpose well, Your Grace," Albion weighed in calmly. "Given that she can speak Rhoynar, of course."

"It is my mother tongue," Allyria responded enthusiastically in Rhoynar, to which the Greyjoy smiled approvingly.

"You do not know what you are agreeing to, girl," Nymeria spoke sternly, also in Rhoynar. "You would be on the sea surrounded by pirates, and away from home for weeks, perhaps even months."

"Give her guards to protect her and she will do fine," Sarella joined the conversation, looking at their mother with empathetic eyes. "She deserves a chance to prove herself, to serve the Principality as a proud Nymeros Martell."

For a moment Nymeria remained silent, her expression shifting from stern to uncertain and finally to melancholic. "So be it," she said with a sigh, switching back to common tongue. "Princess Allyria will serve as the envoy of the Principality of Dorne in this mission, but with her shall travel seven royal guards."

"Thank you, mother," Allyria said humbly, unable to contain her smile and feeling more excited than she had in a long time.


	31. Walton V

**Walton**

Having won the joust of Prince Perceon's nameday tourney Ser Willam Manderly was given the champion's purse, and King Greydon himself named him a member of the Order of the Green Hand and offered him a place in his royal guard. Willam had accepted the offer, kneeling before the King as His Grace donned a green cloak over the Manderly knight's shoulders. Walton cheered on with the others, but there was part of him that was worried for his cousin. There were enemies of House Manderly in Highgarden, he was sure about it, even if the King himself wasn't one of them.

The last event of the tourney was the melee, in which Lord Alester Oakheart distinguished himself by becoming the champion after beating nine other competitors – the last of them King Greydon himself. Lord Symon Tarly didn't do badly either, being among the last ten competitors standing before being taken down by the big and strong Ser Benedict Bulwer of the royal guard. The last night of the tourney was concluded with a massive feast by the riverside. The tables were brimming with all kinds of foods from roasted boar, geese and chickens to massive pies salty and sweet, as well as mead, ale and many sorts of wines. Musicians kept playing cheerful songs throughout the night, while Highgarden's chubby fool called Flowerbutt wobbled across the tables japing drunkenly at whoever he was passing by.

"There is the lord of silver and gold, whom no one likes even if he is rich as the king tenfold!" the fool mocked as he pranced in front of Lord Waymar. Many around the table laughed at the jest, even Lady Alicent, but Walton's father only managed a sour smirk.

It was a happy night. Walton's head had finally started to feel better, and he had no trouble keeping everything he ate and drank inside. He spent most of the night with Ryam, going around listening to stories told around the tables, and tasting all kinds of wines that were on offer. When the dancing began later in the night and Ryam was cooing with Darla Hunt, Walton found the courage to ask Genna Tarly for a dance. As they messed up the rhythm and stumbled their steps, both of them started laughing uncontrollably.

Next morning it was time to leave. Walton gave his farewells to his family, first to his father, mother, brother and sisters who would head back to Dunstonbury, and then to Willam who would remain in Highgarden. This time the Tarlys didn't travel together with the Vyrwels, as Lord Ilyn had hurried and left with his family and entourage early in the morning. The day was sunny, but as they rode to south Walton's mood began to dampen. The joy he had felt for Willam's victory was fading, replaced with fear and concern for what tomorrow held. The Reach was seemingly in peace, but Walton knew now that under the surface old rivalries were festering, and should they emerge above the surface his family would be among the first embroiled in conflict.

As if to reflect his mood the weather began to turn. It started to rain continuously during their second day of travel, and it kept raining with hardly any breaks until they arrived at Horn Hill during the noon of the fifth day. After taking their horses to the stables, wet and tired from the road, Walton and Ryam immediately went to see their hawks in the mews. While feeding his sparrowhawk Shadow, Walton let out a deep sigh.

"Still upset about the squire melee, aye?" Ryam asked calmly, his goshawk Huntress standing on his right elbow as he fed her.

"I hate people like Ivar Vyrwel," Walton muttered in response, lightly petting Shadow's head. "If it weren't for dishonest and dishonorable people like him, the world would be much better. Can you imagine how much better everything would be if everyone was honest and good like Lord Symon?"

Ryam raised an eyebrow at Walton's words. "I haven't really thought about it like that," he said. "But if everyone was good and honest, who'd be the villains that heroes defeat in great stories?"

"I don't know," Walton answered sourly. "In some stories the heroes slay dragons, or giants. I'd prefer that to Ivar Vyrwel."

"Don't be too harsh on Ivar," Ryam said, putting Huntress back into her cage. "I'm sure he regrets what he did. I didn't even see the poor lad once during the last couple days of the tourney."

 _It's not just about Ivar,_ Walton was tempted to say, but held his tongue and just let out another sigh. "I know."

For a single evening the gods allowed Walton to think his life in Horn Hill would go back to the ordinary. He took a bath, attended Maester Runcel's lessons with Ryam, had a pleasant dinner with the Tarly family and read a book about the Three Sage Kings in his bed before falling asleep. However, in the very next morning Walton's world was shaken like never before. He was still breaking his fast together with Ryam and Triston when they were suddenly summoned to the great hall. Making their way there they quickly noticed that more or less the entire household of Horn Hill had been summoned.

Lord Symon was standing at the dais with Lady Marya and Maester Runcel, in his hands a piece of parchment. Together with Ryam and Triston Walton made his way to the front row of the crowded hall. "Good people of Horn Hill," Symon spoke up sternly, and the chatter quieted down. Lord Tarly gulped subtly before speaking up again. "I will not mince words with you… the Reach is at war."

The lord's words were received with audible gasps of shock, and people started to immediately ask _who, where_ and _why._ Symon raised up the parchment in his right hand, a gesture which calmed down the crowd again. "King Greydon informs us that there have been reports of a large Lannister army marching on the northeastern part of the kingdom, pillaging every village they come across, and others about an ironborn fleet sailing down the western coast."

"Has the King called the banners?" Triston asked eagerly, to which his father nodded. "His Grace intends to muster a great army in Highgarden and has instructed Lord Hightower to do the same in Oldtown. House Manderly and the lords of the Shield Islands have been tasked with defending the entrance to Mander against the ironborn. However, most urgently troops are needed in the northeast, and Lord Caswell has begun to assemble a smaller force in Stonebridge to act as the first line of defense against the Lannister invaders."

Now the hall was overtaken by a tense and shocked silence. Lord Symon cleared his throat. "Ser Tyler, Ser Arron, Ser Pate," he addressed three of the household knights, who stepped forward dutifully. "Each of you take a dozen men from the guards and began levying troops today," he commanded, to which the three knights responded in unison: "Yes, mylord."

Now Lord Symon shifted his gaze to Ser Halmon Hunt, who was leaning on the wall next to one of the hearths. "Ser Halmon, muster as many mounted men as you can, we ride to Stonebridge at the first light of tomorrow."

"First in Battle, mylord," Halmon replied to his lord with a wolfish grin on his face, before giving him a dutiful nod and taking his leave.

"What about me, father?" Triston insisted, and the Tarly lord looked at his firstborn son with a pondering expression. "You will remain here until a larger force has been levied. Then you will march those troops to Highgarden and join King Greydon's host. Understood?"

"Yes, mylord," Triston responded, though Walton could tell the Tarly heir wasn't entirely pleased with the task. "Walton, you will ride with me to Stonebridge, as my squire," Symon then said to Walton, who quickly and dutifully bowed his head to the lord.

"And me?" Ryam then asked sharply, which brought a sad smile on Symon's face. "You will remain here in Horn Hill, Ryam," he said, and before the boy could even begin to protest his father raised a single finger to silence him. "I will hear no objections. In the absence of myself and your brother, you will act as the Lord of Horn Hill. Your duty is to remain here, to hold this castle in the name of House Tarly while we're gone."

Ryam nodded wordlessly to his father, but his eyes revealed that he was very disappointed. After the meeting was over and people of the castle returned to their tasks, Walton followed Ryam to the small and bright godswood of Horn Hill. In the middle of it there was a small pond, and next to it an old oak, which was the heart tree of the godswood. Walton and Ryam sat beneath the oak, and for a moment neither said anything.

"I wish you could come with us… or I could stay here with you," Walton finally spoke up, his tone apologetic even if none of this was his choice. Ryam's mouth was set in a tense grim line, and his eyes oozed of frustration and anger. He grabbed a stone from the ground and tossed it at the pond, leaving ripples at the surface as it sunk down. "It's not fair," Ryam muttered angrily. "As the men of the Reach from Oldtown to Tumbleton band together to defend their homeland against these invaders, I am left here to sit like a useless child."

"You will be the acting lord," Walton said, but Ryam merely scoffed at the remark. "The lord of a garrison of handful men-at-arms and a bunch of servants," he said disparagingly. "Any household knight could be left to hold the castle; mother even could be trusted with the task. The truth is that my father thinks I'm not enough of a man to go to war."

"Maybe he's right," Walton said with a gulp, receiving a cold glare from his friend. "I'm certainly not sure if I'm enough of a man for it," he quickly added. "Maybe no one is. You know, a lot of people are going to die in this war, Ryam. Perhaps you should be grateful that you most likely won't be one of them."

Ryam's expression softened, and for a moment he turned his eyes down in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't complain," he muttered with a regretful tone. "I… I hope you'll stay safe, Walton," he said, raising his gaze to look Walton in the eyes again. "Come back alive, so that one day we can ride to battle side by side, you and me. What do you say, friend?"

"I'll do my best," Walton responded, forcing a small smile on his face.

The next morning they were preparing to leave, and Walton was once again clad in his armor. Ser Halmon had gathered some hundred riders, two dozen of them anointed knights, twice as many squires and mounted levies, and the rest were common freeriders.

The Tarly family had come out to the courtyard to give their farewells to Lord Symon. Triston and Ryam both looked sullen while their mother Lady Marya was shedding quiet tears. Close to them was Genna, standing there with Darla Hunt and a redheaded servant girl from the kitchens named Jenny. While Symon was talking with his wife, Ryam decided to approach Genna.

"Walton," she greeted him with her sweet voice, looking as beautiful and innocent as always. It was what Walton had always loved about her, the sincerity in her green eyes and the kindness in her cheerful smiles. "Genna, I…," Walton glanced at Darla and Jenny. "I wanted to share a few words with you before I leave."

Genna nodded understandingly, and they took a few steps away from the other two girls. "What is it, Walton?" Genna asked gently. Walton gulped, taking a moment to find the right words. "I just wanted to say that I'll miss you," he started tensely. "I know, we don't spend that much time together, but when we do I… I feel like we have a… connection. I don't know what will happen in this war, I don't know if I'll even come back…"

"Walton," Genna cut him off, softly grabbing his right hand with both of hers. "You will come back, I know it. I will pray for father and you, every day. I promise."

Walton nodded stiffly, hoping he would never have to let go of Genna. "Still, I wanted you to know," he said quietly. "In case we won't see each other again… I love you, Genna."

Her eyes widened slightly, as she was clearly surprised by Walton's words. "Walton, I…" she struggled to find an answer. "I'm touched by your words." She sighed, looking Walton to the eyes and smiling shyly. "Come back alive, and we can talk more."

Walton nodded, and slowly Genna let go of his hand. "Goodbye," he whispered, before turning around and walking to his horse. He wasn't sure how to feel about what just happened, but there was no more time to dwell on it now. Now there was a war to fight.


	32. Gwynesse V

**Gwynesse**

A little over a week after crossing the border between the Rock and the Reach was when the Lannister army faced its first resistance from the Reachmen, as a fairly small band of mounted men-at-arms flying banners of House Wythers, House Lyberr and House Inchfield began to harass them. First they ambushed a foraging party, killing dozens of Westermen soldiers before disappearing to the countryside. Then the next day they set fires on the Lannisters' line of marching, though those were quickly put out as it started to rain. The night after that they tried to attack the camp from the north but were quickly deterred and sent to retreat by the archers guarding the camp.

In the morning following the nightly attack Ser Aubrey Crakehall led the vanguard ahead of the rest of the army, and returned a couple hours before sundown, having routed the harassers and captured two of their leaders – Ser Olymer Wythers and Ser Erwin Lyberr. With a big grin on his face the Crakehall knight presented the two tied up Reachmen to Prince Tymond Lannister. Olymer Wythers was a balding and portly man on his fifties, while Erwin Lyberr was hardly a man grown. Gwynesse thought he might have been handsome, if it weren't for the dark and swollen bruises currently on his face.

"Well done, Ser Aubrey. Noble hostages are always welcome," Prince Tymond spoke calmly as he studied the two men with his eyes. "So, what do we have here? Younger brothers or second sons of noble lords, aye?"

"Lord Wendel Wythers is my nephew," Ser Olymer responded sternly. Prince Tymond nodded and turned his gaze to the younger man. "And you?" he asked, but Ser Erwin remained defiantly silent.

"He's the heir of Lord Uthor Lyberr," Ser Olymer explained with a sigh, receiving an angry glare from the young knight.

"Good," Prince Tymond said nonchalantly and turned towards Ser Aubrey again. "We should be able to get a decent ransom out of these two. Ser Aubrey, make sure they are treated well and guarded at all times."

After the capture of the Wythers and Lyberr knights most of the villages, orchards and farmsteads the Lannister army came across were abandoned, their people having fled to south with their livestock and whatever possessions they could carry. _No wonder,_ Gwynesse thought grimly. During this past week she had witnessed the Lannister army robbing and killing everything it came across, leaving behind a trail of mud and blood.

During the twelfth day after crossing the border they arrived at the Ring, the seat of House Roxton. It was a sturdy square fort built atop a hill, protected by thirty feet high walls, six round towers and a dry moat around it. The hill wasn't very high or steep, though the surrounding flat farmlands made it look larger than it truly was. The drawbridge was raised and the portcullis lowered, and some men armed with spears and bows could be seen behind the battlements.

"The castle is lightly defended," Lord Lyn Serrett claimed confidently. "The men on the battlements stand far apart from each other, suggesting they hardly have enough to man the walls."

"Can we take it with an assault?" asked Ser Alton Lydden.

"Of course we can," barked Lord Ryman Brax in response. "The question is whether we should. It is as Lord Serrett says, this castle is lightly garrisoned. The troops behind those walls don't pose a threat to us, but when it comes to taking a castle the defenders always have the advantage. Aye, we can take the Ring, but we will lose many men in the process."

"Losses are to be expected in a war," the elderly Lord Monfryd Banefort stated sternly. "However, taking the Ring would give us a firm foothold in the Reach, a base to operate from."

"I agree with Lord Banefort," Prince Tywell said calmly, and his father nodded in agreement.

"Begin to build the siege engines," Prince Tymond commanded with a tone that left no room for objections.

Together with Prince Harmund and Prince Tywell Gwynesse watched as the soldiers began to put together battering rams, ladders and catapults.

"The Ironborn look down on the use of siege engines," Harmund stated calmly, receiving a surprised glance from Tywell. "Why?" the young Lannister prince asked with a confused expression.

"It goes against the old way," Harmund said with a mocking smirk. "They believe wars should be fought on the field with swords and axes, man against man."

"It would certainly make things simpler if everyone followed that sentiment," Tywell remarked lightheartedly. "However, so long as our enemies cower behind walls I'm more than happy to knock down those walls with siege engines."

"I think it's a shame," Gwynesse said quietly, receiving curious glances from both princes. "That we must knock down those walls, I mean," she clarified. "Who knows how long they've stood there."

"Yes, it is a shame," Harmund agreed softly.

However, long before the work on the siege engines was done the Ring surrendered. A white banner was raised above the gatehouse, the defenders put down their arms, the portcullis was risen, the drawbridge was lowered, and the castellan rode out to formally withhold the castle to the Lannister army. It turned out there were only a couple dozen men garrisoning the castle, most of them either green boys or grey old men. There were no servants present either, and the larders and storerooms had been emptied from most food and supplies.

"They've all gone to Stonebridge," said Ser Emerick Shermer, the elderly castellan of the Ring. "Lord Caswell is amassing an army there."

The garrison of the castle were allowed to leave without their arms and armors, save for Ser Emerick who was taken to the castle's dungeons together with the Olymer Wythers and Erwin Lyberr. Prince Tymond made the Ring the base of his army, a massive camp of Westermen soldiers sprawling all around it. Looking at all those tents and banners, Gwynesse found it hard to imagine a force strong enough to stop them. She also wondered if the Ironborn had already attacked the Reach from the sea. _This war will truly transform Westeros,_ she realized, perhaps fully for the first time.

Gwynesse was given comfortable quarters in the main keep of the castle, right next to Prince Harmund's room. Sitting there alone, half-heartedly reading one of the books given to her by Princess Lorena, she allowed herself to imagine she was back in Hammerhorn again. The chilly wind of the Iron Isles on her reddened cheeks, a fresh summer rain soaking her hair, the sound of her brothers sparring, laughing and arguing with each other. Gwynesse had always wanted to see the world, but now that she was here she missed her home. Here she was surrounded by strangers, the only one among them she could trust being Harmund. _Did I make a mistake following him into this war?_

Early in the next morning the door of her room was knocked on, and as she opened it she found Prince Harmund standing at the corridor. "Morning, Gwyn," he said softly, a charming little smile forming on his cleanshaven face. "Prince Tymond is about to hold a war council at the great hall. Would you like to come with me?"

"To the war council?" Gwynesse asked with a raised eyebrow, to which Harmund nodded with a chuckle. "Yes," he replied with a relaxed tone. "You deserve to be there just as much as any of these westermen lordlings. More so than most of them, I'd argue."

"I'm flattered, my prince," Gwynesse responded with a smirk, which the Hoare prince reciprocated. "Fine then, lead the way."

As they made their way into the great hall, Gwynesse noticed the blue-and-gold banners of House Roxton had been torn down from the walls and replaced with Lannister lions. Princes Tymond and Tywell stood at the dais, and a noisy crowd of lords and knights had gathered near them.

"We cannot stay here," Lord Ryman Brax started with his dry and gloomy tone, scratching his stubble beard as he spoke. "Not all twenty thousand of us, not for long. The pantries and granaries have been emptied, and the nearby lands will be foraged empty within weeks."

"We have a supply line back to Deep Den," Ser Alton Lydden pointed out calmly, to which the Brax lord scoffed. "It is a long route, and I can guarantee you those supply caravans will be harassed on the way."

"Lord Brax is right, we cannot stay here for long," Prince Tymond joined the conversation with his stern and tense voice. "We will of course leave a small garrison to hold the Ring, but the question I've summoned you all here to discuss is where should we march from here?"

"Any word of the Ironborn fleet?" Lord Regenard Reyne asked with a mildly concerned expression on his reddish face.

"Nothing so far," Prince Tywell was the one to answer. "However, there is no reason to doubt they will soon arrive at the mouth of Mander and break through whatever defenses the Reachmen have been able to muster there. Their assault is sure to draw the attention of Highgarden, which is why I suggest we take care of this army in Stonebridge before it marches west to join with the Gardener king."

"Do we know how large the army in Stonebridge is?" asked Prince Harmund.

"We do not," Prince Tymond spoke up again. "However, we can reasonably assume it is significantly smaller than our own."

"But do we even need Stonebridge?" Lyn Serrett challenged, a confident smirk on his face. "By holding this castle we already have a foothold in the Reach, I say we march straight to Highgarden before King Greydon has the opportunity to muster large enough force to challenge us."

"Highgarden is not so easily taken," Ser Aubrey remarked sharply. "And it could leave us surrounded by enemy armies from all directions. Lord Caswell has his host in Stonebridge, and I am sure by now lords Osgrey, Hightower and Peake have each also began to amass their troops, not to mention the Redwyne fleet. By defeating this army in Stonebridge, we would at least have the eastern Reach secured."

The discussions went on throughout the whole day, but by the end it was decided that a garrison of thousand men led by Lord Ryman Brax and Ser Alton Lydden would remain to hold the Ring, while the rest of the army led by the Lannister princes would advance to Stonebridge, and several scouting parties would be sent to the west.

After a feast held at the end of the council, Gwynesse made her way alone to the battlements of the Ring. From there she saw the massive camp around the castle, and watched and listened to the thousands of soldiers who had gathered around the hundreds of cookfires to drink, feast and sing together. Above them all a silver crescent moon shined on a clear night sky with thousands of stars, dim and bright. There was something oddly calming about the sight, even if Gwynesse knew many of these men were marching to their deaths.

"Lady Gwynesse," she suddenly heard the voice Aubrey Crakehall, and turned to see him approach her atop the wall. "It seems we have a similar idea of a relaxing evening," he said with a thin smirk as he leaned on the battlements next to her.

"Or you followed me here," she responded sharply.

"You are not easily fooled, are you, mylady?" Aubrey asked with a small chuckle, and Gwynesse gave him a nonchalant glare. "I assume the mainlander girls are duller, then?"

"Some of them," Aubrey said calmly. "Not all of course. I believe you met with Princess Lorena yourself. Now there is a strong-willed and smart young woman, much better than Ramsay Reyne deserves."

Gwynesse turned her eyes back towards the camp with a small sigh. "What do you want from me, Ser Aubrey?"

For a moment the Crakehall knight remained silent, just gazing at the night sky. "Nothing," he finally said, taking in a deep breath. "I was merely wondering if war is truly the right place for you, mylady."

"I can take care of myself, ser," Gwynesse was quick to respond, and Aubrey nodded in an agreeing manner. "I don't doubt it," he said softly. "However, what is it that you hope to achieve here?"

Gwynesse gulped, considering her answer for a moment. "I am here to accompany Prince Harmund, to give him my love and support," she said tensely.

"He asked you to come with him, right?" Aubrey asked quietly, and Gwynesse nodded. "I can understand why you agreed. He is a charming man, and handsome, and the heir to the Seastone Chair. However, do you truly believe it was an act of love from him to bring you with him into a war?"

Gwynesse hesitated for a moment. "He didn't want us to separate, because…"

"Because he fears you will bear him a bastard that he cannot ignore or deny," Aubrey concluded bluntly. "Have you considered that to avoid any chance of that happening he could've simply married you back in Casterly Rock?"

"I know," Gwynesse hissed, feeling uncomfortable with the discussion. "But it's like you said, he is the heir to the Seastone Chair, of course he doesn't want to make a rushed decision on something like this."

"Yet he is perfectly happy to use you for his pleasure," Aubrey pointed out, and Gwynesse shot him with an irritated glare. "What exactly are you trying to say, Ser Aubrey?"

The Crakehall knight let out a sigh and turned his gaze down, seemingly regretful for having angered Gwynesse. "I merely want you to question whether Prince Harmund is the kind of man you imagine him to be, mylady," he said softly, bowing to her and then taking his leave.


	33. Hagon V

**Hagon**

The Shield Islands had fallen to the Ironborn and Farman fleet with hardly any resistance, undoubtedly because the ships of the Shield Islanders had retreated to defend the entrance to Mander. Prince Hagon sat next to his father, King Harmund, at the high table of Southshield Castle's great hall. It was the final feast before the war would truly begin, and just from the ruckus in the hall one could tell the men were more than eager to finally bloody their blades against the Reachmen. Lord Roryn Drumm was playing finger dance with his crewman atop one of the tables, and on another table there was a fistfight going on between Karin Orkwood and a Farman knight.

Hagon himself was having a drinking contest with Lord Qarl Volmark, both of them having downed six horns of ale by now. Qarl was a broad shouldered and hairy man on his early thirties, with a frizzy brown beard and a receding hairline. He was a boisterous man who enjoyed laughing and drinking more than anything else in the world, as Hagon learned that night.

"Can't keep up, princeling?" Qarl asked after gulping down his seventh horn, flashing his sparse line of teeth in a mocking grin.

"Fuck you," Hagon muttered and forced himself to gulp down the rest of the ale in his horn. Qarl burst into a loud laughter and tapped the prince on the back. "You've got spirit, boy!" he bellowed, beginning to refill their horns again.

After that Hagon's recollection of the night became foggy, with no memory regarding whether he won the drinking contest or not. Regardless of that, he woke up early in the next morning with a mild headache as his friend Quenton Farwynd came to wake him up. "Hagon, we're preparing to set sail for Mander," he said tensely.

With a dizzy head and slightly faltering steps Hagon made his way out of the castle and to the beach, where the hundreds of longships were being boarded and prepared to set sail by the thousands of Ironborn warriors. Walking towards his own ship, the _Iron Heart_ , Hagon noticed Lord Volmark standing aboard his longship _Leviathan's Wrath_. From the smug grin that the man flashed him the Hoare prince could only deduce that he had indeed lost that drinking contest last night.

Before reaching his ship he was approached by King Harmund. "Father," Hagon muttered, his voice coming out hoarser than he had expected.

"Son," Harmund replied. The king's lips formed a thin smirk, but it quickly faded as he continued. "I wanted to see you before we sail to battle."

"You've seen me now, Your Grace," Hagon responded sternly.

Harmund narrowed his eyes, meticulously studying Hagon's face, and after a moment he placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "I shouldn't have doubted you," he said quietly. "You're an ironman at your heart, I can see that now. You've chosen the path of our ancestors, the path of the Old Way. It's a different path than the one your mother hoped you would take, but it is a choice only you can make for yourself. And I shall respect it."

"Thank you, father," Hagon said, his tone sincere. "I shall bring glory to our house today."

"May the gods protect you," Harmund said softly, before tapping Hagon on the shoulder and walking away.

Climbing aboard the _Iron Heart_ Hagon found Quenton Farwynd raising the Hoare banner above the sails, and the old and fat steersman known among the crew as the Swine commanding the men to the oars with his booming voice. Hagon stood at the prow as they set sail, just feeling the gusts of wind on his face and listening to the sounds of hundreds of ships plowing through the waves. However, after an hour or so he got bored and made his way into the aft cabin. There he laid down on a hammock and began to inspect his sword, to make sure it was efficiently sharp for the battle ahead. However, Hagon's thoughts quickly drifted into what his father had said to him at the beach. _He approves the path I've chosen,_ he thought with some satisfaction. However, it wasn't lost on Hagon that the path chosen by his older brother had also been approved by their father, and much earlier at that. He would not want to hear it of course, but a future conflict between the two sons of King Harmund was inevitable – they were pulling House Hoare to opposite directions. _How can he not see the contradiction?_

Soon the cabin's door was knocked on, and Quenton stepped inside with a displeased look on his face. Hagon looked at his friend with a frown. "What is it?"

"A couple dozen ships just separated from the fleet, heading towards Raylansfair," Quenton answered with a sigh as he sat down. "Probably intending to raid it."

"And whose ships were they?" Hagon asked.

"Lord Drumm's," Quenton answered.

Hagon smirked. "Roryn the Reaver… that man is a rogue to the core. We should've probably expected something like this, especially after father put him in charge of guarding the rear with Lord Blacktyde. Not exactly the most glorious job for a famous reaver like him. Not to worry though, I'm sure he'll join us again soon enough."

"Or he will just plunder Raylansfair empty and then sail back to the Iron Isles," Quenton said with a cynical tone. "That man only cares for his own wealth."

"He does care for his reputation as well," Hagon said confidently. "He won't want to be known as a coward. He'll rejoin us once he has had his fun in Raylansfair."

Another couple of hours went by before they finally reached the entrance to Mander and came face to face with the fleet defending said entrance. Hagon saw perhaps a hundred ships blockading the mouth of the river that was almost a mile wide, formed into three lines of defense. On the southern bank of the river there were also half-a-dozen trebuchets, preparing to rain rocks and fire upon the attacking ships. Hagon had wondered in the past why ironborn raiders no longer dared to invade the Mander, but he wondered no more.

Most of the defenders' ships were longships not too different from those of the ironborn, but among them were also a few massive dromonds with over three-hundred oars and a dozen war galleys with at least two-hundred oars. Among their banners Hagon recognized the green hand of House Gardener, the merman of House Manderly, as well as the sigils of the Shield Islander lords – even if he couldn't exactly recall which sigil belonged to which house.

The Farman ships with their strong rams and ballistae mounted on their prow led the charge as the first line, while the longships of Great Wyk, Harlaw and Orkmont formed the second, third, fourth and fifth lines. The longships of Blacktyde and those that remained from the Old Wyk would guard the rear, while the longships of the Pyke and Saltcliffe would attempt to make a landing on the southern bank to harass the trebuchet crews.

The _Iron Heart_ was in the middle of the second line, flanked by Lord Volmark's _Leviathan's Wrath_ on the starboard and King Harmund's _Iron Raven_ on the portside. Some hundred feet ahead of them was the hulking Farman flagship _Sea Lion_ , and a hundred feet behind them were Harrick Hoare's _Dark Princess_ and Erik Goodbrother's _Corpsemaker_.

"Battle speed!" Hagon roared a command for his crew as they crept closer to the enemy lines. He could hear the sounds of the Farman ships loosing their ballistae on the defenders, followed by the sound of the steel bolts crashing through wood. The defenders responded in kind, and now the crashing sounds and screams of pain came from much closer. Hagon gulped and clenched tightly the hilt of his sword, which was still sheathed. He didn't fear the fighting and killing, he yearned for it, but he hated standing here without being able to anything except hope and pray his ships wouldn't be sunken by the ballistae or trebuchets of the enemy.

"Hagon!" Quenton yelled, grabbing him from the arm and pointing toward the skies to the south. Turning his gaze there, Hagon saw hundreds of stones – all of them larger than a man's head – flying towards the fleet. "Brace for impact!" he screamed at his crew, as if there was anything they could do to prepare.

However, none of the stones hit the _Iron Heart_. Some landed on the water just a few feet away from them and splashed the whole crew soaking wet. The _Leviathan's Wrath_ was less lucky, several stones having torn holes into its hull and breaking its mast. The ship quickly began to sink, and Hagon thought he saw Qarl Volmark descending beneath the waves with an axe in hand. _I laughed and drank with him yesterday._

The stones were followed by a volley of incendiary projectiles, but they mostly rained down on the third and fourth lines.

"Captain, we are approaching the enemy line!" the Swine roared from the stern of the ship. Turning his gaze forward again, Hagon saw that they were indeed under a hundred feet away from the reachmen ships. Some of those ships had been boarded by Farman knights and soldiers, some were sinking, some were just now ramming Farman ships or being rammed by one, some were retreating back towards the second line of defenders, and some charged forward towards the second line of attackers. Hagon saw one Shield Islander longship with a red-green-and-yellow banner directly ahead of them. He unsheathed his sword and pointed it towards the ship. "Assault that ship!"

As they got closer the reachmen loosed a small volley of arrows on them. Most of them missed the Iron Heart completely or landed on its boards, but four of them did land on the oarsmen, killing two and injuring two. Just a few seconds after that the hulls of the two ships scraped against each other with a loud noise, and both crews began to throw grapnels over their opponents' railings, locking the two ships against each other.

"Board the ship!" Hagon roared to his crew, to which they responded with thundering battle cries. The two crews clashed on the railings, many men falling down to the waters between the ships. However, Hagon fought his way to the deck of the enemy ship, cutting down two reachmen by the railings. He was then approached by a knight, a tall man wielding a bastard sword and clad in plated steel armor that was enameled green. Behind the visor Hagon could see the sheer fervor in the man's eyes as he swung his sword toward him. Hagon blocked the strike, but it was a heavy blow that he could feel even through the shield. Not seeing an opening to counter he backed down, and the knight pursued him, striking fiercely from above. Hagon managed to dodge the swing, but he then slipped on the wet boards, lost his footing, landed on his ass and lost his grip on his sword.

The knight laughed as he stepped closer to Hagon with the intention to end the ironborn prince's life with a single swing of his sword. However, Hagon managed to quickly grab the axe from his belt and threw it towards the knight. With a great clank the axe thudded against the knight's armored chest. It merely dented the armor, but the impact was still enough for the knight to lose his focus and balance for a moment, which was enough for Hagon to grab his sword again and charge against the knight. He plunged his sword through the small crack between the knight's helm and gorget, effectively penetrating his throat. With a bloody gurgle the man collapsed as Hagon pulled out his sword.

Hagon breathed heavily and looked around him, seeing the fighting between his crew and this Shield Islander crew was still ongoing on both decks. However, before he could do anything else, he heard a loud crash and lost his footing again, falling face first on the boards. He felt dizzy, his face was resting on a puddle of blood from the knight he had just slain, and it felt like the world was spinning around him. With a groan he managed to roll over onto his back, seeing the blue afternoon sky above and hearing the sounds of battle all around him. Then the deck slowly began to tilt.

"Hagon, get up!" Quenton shouted, having appeared above him and offering him his hand. With a grin Hagon grabbed his friend's hand and was pulled back up on his feet. However, he struggled to keep his balance as the deck kept tilting. "The ship's sinking, the Farmans rammed into it!" Quenton yelled, gesturing for Hagon to follow him back to the _Iron Heart_ , and so he did.

The deck of his longship was littered with corpses, most of them thankfully reachmen soldiers. While the corpses were being thrown off board Hagon took a moment to observe the battle that was raging around him. The river and the bay were filled with floating corpses and debris of wrecked and sunken ships, dark smoke rising from some of them. Some of the Farman ships had broken through the first two lines of defense and were now engaging with the third line. Hagon saw the crew of his father boarding a Manderly galley together with a Kenning crew, while dozens of Greyjoy, Botley, Wynch, Saltcliffe and Sunderly crews were making a landing on the southern bank.

"Forward! The blockade must be broken!" Hagon commanded his crew, and so they pushed on. Seeing another Manderly galley attacking the _Iron Raven_ , Hagon commanded his crew to board it. He again personally led the charge, fighting side by side with Quenton as they cut through the Manderly soldiers. With help from the King Harmund's crew they easily overwhelmed the defenders and captured their ship. However, just as Hagon thought the fighting was over he heard a familiar voice screaming in pain behind him. He turned around to see Quenton groveling on the floor in pain, a gruesome wound on his right arm spanning from wrist to elbow and bleeding heavily. The Manderly soldier who had wounded Quenton was currently being beaten to death by Hagon's crewmen.

Quickly Hagon ripped some blue-green fabric from the tabard of a dead Manderly soldier and began to wrap it around his friend's wound. "You'll be alright," he muttered.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, it hurts," Quenton cursed with a panicked voice. Hagon looked his friend in the eyes, but the fear and panic in them was too much for him to bear. Silently he carried Quenton back to the _Iron Heart_ and commanded the crew to make a landing on the southern bank. He lowered his shaking friend to sit down against the railing and knelt down next to him.

"That bastard surprised me," Quenton said with a shaky voice, grimacing in pain. Hagon looked at the cloth he had wrapped around Quenton's arm, noticing that the blood had turned it dark red. With a gulp he stood up, once again observing the battle. Though the fighting still continued on some of the ships the blockade had clearly been broken, with a dozen-or-so reachman ships retreating upstream. The trebuchet crews had also been routed by the unit of ironborn warriors led by Lord Greyjoy. The battle had been won, but not without a cost.

As the _Iron Heart_ beached on the southern bay the sun was already nearing the horizon in the west. The Farmans and Ironborn had already began to set up a camp south of the river. With the help of the Swine Hagon carried Quenton towards that bay, taking him straight to the sickbay where the injured were being gathered.

"This is Quenton of House Farwynd, friend of Prince Hagon Hoare!" Hagon declared loudly as they arrived there. "Make sure to tend to his wound immediately!"

Two of the healers quickly rushed to take care of Quenton. Before they dragged him away, Hagon gave him one last look. "You'll make it through this, friend," he said, but he wasn't sure if Quenton even heard his words.


	34. Lyonel VI

**Lyonel**

The night after their escape from Stoney Sept was rainy, or at least Lyonel was fairly sure that it was. His mind was a blur of darkness, pain and distant sounds of the men pursuing them. "Lyonel," his squire Axel said every now and then to make sure he didn't fall asleep on his saddle.

The barking of dogs and yelling of the Faith Militant men slowly grew more and more distant as Lyonel and Axel rode through woods and fields towards east, praying their horses would not stumble on any roots or stones in the darkness of the night.

As hours went by the sounds disappeared entirely, and Lyonel's delirious mind began to wander. Staring into the forest ahead of him, he saw a light in the darkness. It was unlike any light casted by torches, candles of lanterns, it was more pure, heavenly even. And in that light, Lyonel saw a tall young man with long blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a joyful smile. "Jeren," Lyonel spoke with a confused tone, which made the young man chuckle. "You've gotten older, Lynnie," he answered with a cheerful tone.

"You… look exactly as you did sixteen years ago," Lyonel muttered, his eyes studying the man he had loved so long ago. "I… haven't thought of you in a while, Jeren. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize, my dear," Jeren answered warmly. "I've been waiting for you."

"I think… I might join you soon," Lyonel said, suddenly remembering the bolt in his lower back, and the pain radiating from it. Then he felt a hand grabbing him from his shoulder. Slowly the light disappeared, and Jeren with it.

"Lyonel, are you alright?"

He turned his gaze to see his squire looking at him with concern. "I'm fine," Lyonel lied through his teeth.

By dawn they stopped for a moment, long enough for Axel to make a fire, remove the bolt from Lyonel's back and cauterize the wound. When it was done Lyonel grimaced in pain and spoke, "We have to keep moving."

An hour later they found a safe place to cross the Blackwater Rush, and continued to south and east from there. By noon they came across a wild cherry tree, from which Axel picked cherries for them to eat. _We can't be far from reaching Harlton lands,_ Lyonel thought, allowing himself just a sliver of hope. _Perhaps this is not the end._

As the sun set that evening, they finally allowed themselves to rest. Axel insisted staying up and letting Lyonel sleep, and begrudgingly he agreed to it. Closing his eyes, he wasn't sure if he'd ever open them again. _If that is my fate, so be it._

New dawn came, and beams of sunlight shined through the verdant woods and the morning fog. Lyonel could see that some of the leaves had already began to turn yellow. _Summer is almost over_. He felt cold and burning at the same time, he felt weak and tired, and he still felt a throbbing pain in his back where the bolt had been.

"Ser," Axel said as he noticed that Lyonel had woken up.

"I'm still not a knight, kid," he reminded his squire, forcing a smirk on his face. Axel helped Lyonel up to a sitting position, making him lean against a poplar tree. The boy handed him a flask of water, which Lyonel grabbed eagerly.

"I've picked up some berries as well if you'd like," Axel said while Lyonel was gulping down the water.

"I haven't properly thanked you yet, Axel," Lyonel said as the boy handed him some blackberries.

"No need to, this whole mess was my fault in the first place," Axel replied, a hint of shame in his words. "If Ser Mathis hadn't recognized me…"

"Thank you, Axel," Lyonel sternly cut his squire off. "For saving my life, for being a loyal squire. What happened in Stoney Sept was unlucky, but it was your actions that saved us from certain death. You should take pride in that."

For a moment they were both silent, until Axel stood up with a small sigh. "I left the horses to drink from a nearby brook," he said quietly. "I'll go fetch them back."

Lyonel almost fell asleep again while Axel was gone. However, then he heard something. Perhaps it was just wildlife rustling brushes in the distance. A few moments went by before he heard it again, this time more clearly. Barking of dogs, followed by human voices. _Are they still on our trail?_ With great pain Lyonel forced himself to stand up and grabbed his sword. He was in no condition to fight, but he would at least die with a sword in hand.

Axel soon returned with the horses. "You heard it too," he said nervously, looking at Lyonel.

"Aye, it's the Faith Militant, I'm sure of it," he muttered, clutching the hilt of his sword tightly, hearing the distant voices of men and dogs slowly getting closer. "You go, take the horses and ride back to Castlewood, I'll hold them."

"No," Axel protested, now drawing his own sword. "I won't abandon you, Lyonel."

Lyonel smirked thinly at his squire's words. "If we both die here, we've failed our mission," he said calmly. "Ride to Castlewood and tell Lord Harlton what we saw and heard in Stoney Sept."

For a moment Axel stood there in silence, his expression slowly turning from stubborn defiance to conflicted grief. Finally, he let out a deep sigh and sheathed his sword. All the while the noises of the men tracking them kept creeping closer and closer. By now Lyonel could even make out some of their words.

"Farewell, Lyonel," Axel said with a saddened voice as he mounted his horse, and Lyonel responded with a wordless nod.

As his squire rode off, Lyonel turned around to face his enemies. He walked toward the noises, and soon he came face to face with a band of eight men. One of them was clearly a kennel master, holding four bloodhounds on a leash. Six of them were Poor Fellows, young boys and old men armed with cudgels, maces, hatchets and crossbows. Lyonel recognized one of them as Omer the Old, who might well have been the one who shot him in the back when they made their escape. Finally, the man leading them was a knight of the Warrior's Sons, clad in silver armor and rainbow cloak, and the only one out of the bunch who was mounted.

"Looking for me, are you?" Lyonel asked, standing straight and trying his best to hide his pain. The knight raised his visor, revealing a cleanshaven face of a young man. "Ser Leo of Duskendale," he said with a condemning tone. "Though that isn't your real name, is it?"

"No, it isn't," Lyonel admitted nonchalantly.

"Tell us who you are and who sent you to Stoney Sept, and I shall give you a good clean death," the young knight promised. "Resist us and I will ride you down and feed your corpse to the hounds."

Lyonel sheathed his sword, figuring he would win more time for Axel by complying. "I will give you my name, but I would like to learn yours first."

"What use does a dead man have for my name?" the knight asked with an agitated tone.

"I would like to know the name of the man who has the honor to end my life, that is all," Lyonel responded calmly. The young knight stared at him with for a few seconds with a steely gaze, but then his expression softened, and he let out a sigh. "Ser Raylon Ryger," he said sternly.

"Lord Robb Ryger's son?" Lyonel asked.

"Nephew," Raylon hissed, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Now, your name. _Real_ name."

"Lyonel Bracken," he declared calmly, which made the Poor Fellows mutter in surprise.

"I've heard of you," Raylon said with narrowed eyes. "You fought with Lord Roderick in the last war, and have served the Blackwoods ever since, correct?"

"Correct."

"So, Lord Brydan sent you to spy on King Lucifer?" Raylon asked.

"Lord Brydan gave the order, yes," Lyonel answered with a subtle gulp, realizing he was almost out of time. Ser Raylon couldn't have many more questions left, and then it would be over for him. _It is an honor to die doing my duty._ "However, it was Prince Barron Durrandon's idea. He has ridden to Storm's End and will return to Riverlands with the full might of the Storm King."

For a moment the forest was filled with a tense silence, until Omer the Old spoke up. "He had a squire with him, and they escaped Stoney Sept with horses," he said, pointing his crossbow at Lyonel. "Where are they?"

Lyonel sighed and put on the best expression of disappointment he could muster. "The boy left this morning before I woke up," he lied with a straight face. "No doubt thought I was slowing him down and left me to die."

This seemed to amuse Raylon Ryger. "There is no honor among godless men," he said as he dismounted his horse and drew his sword. "Time to die, Lyonel Bracken," the knight said with a dutiful tone. "Get on your knees."

For a second Lyonel considered drawing his sword and fighting back, but he knew it would be futile. So, he went down on his knees, feeling a sting of pain radiating from his back again. _Soon I will be with you, Jeren._

Raylon walked next to him and cleared his throat. "I, Ser Raylon Ryger, sworn brother of the Warrior's Sons and servant of the Faith, sentence this man to death, for conspiring against the rule of King Lucifer Justman, first of his name, the chosen of the Seven and the rightful…"

Before Raylon could finish speaking he was cut off by a trumpet sounding in the woods nearby, followed by the sound galloping horses. They all looked towards north, seeing a dozen riders charging towards them through the forest. "STORM KING!" Lyonel heard some of the scream. They were wearing striped black-and-red tabards with a golden goose embroidered on the chest. _House Cargyll,_ Lyonel recognized, and then he noticed Axel riding beside the Cargyll men. _How in the world did he?_

Then everything happened quickly. Raylon Ryger rushed back atop his horse, the kennel master and his dogs ran away in panic, the Poor Fellows managed to take down one of the Cargyll riders with their crossbows, and Omer tried to shoot at Lyonel but missed him by just a few inches.

Lyonel drew his sword as Omer the Old charged towards him with his mace, while the rest of the Poor Fellows were being cut down by the attackers. With difficulty Lyonel managed to block Omer's first strike, but the second one hit him painfully on the ribs, making him stumble down on the mossy ground. However, as Omer tried to start beating him to death, Lyonel surprised the old man with a swift thrust straight to his belly. The blade penetrated Omer's leather jerkin and plunged into his entrails. A shocked expression took over the old man's face, and with hysteria he dropped his mace and grabbed the blade of Lyonel's sword, trying to pull it out of himself in panic. Lyonel pushed the blade deeper instead, before violently pulling it out, blood splattering all over him. Omer the Old was dead, and now his corpse fell on Lyonel.

Stuck under Omer's corpse and feeling dizzy, Lyonel turned his gaze towards the battle raging beside him. All of the Poor Fellows were dead, as well as few of the Cargyll men. Ser Raylon Rygers was still holding his own against three Cargyll men who surrounded him, until finally they managed to knock him off his horse. Axel rushed to help Lyonel, with him one of the Cargyll men. _No, not a man,_ Lyonel realized as he saw the woman's face as she removed her helmet.

His mind was already drifting towards unconsciousness as Axel and the Cargyll woman lifted Omer's corpse off from him.

"You've done your duty well, Lyonel Bracken," the Cargyll woman said softly, a compassionate look in her hazel eyes. "We'll take you back to Castlewood."


	35. Bernarr I

**Bernarr**

It was a misty and dewy morning in the North. Lord Bernarr Bolton stood alone in the shadowy godswood of Dreadfort, the ancestral home of his ancient and noble family. He stared into the mournful red eyes of the heart tree, wondering what his ancestors would think of him. The Red Kings of Dreadfort had stood against the hegemony of the Starks longer than anyone else in the North, and Bernarr's grandfather Gerhard Bolton had attempted to reclaim their glory. He had started a bloody war against King Eyron Stark eleven years ago, and during the nearly three years that the war lasted Bernarr had lost his father, mother, two uncles, younger sister, three older brothers, all three of his remaining grandparents and several cousins.

The war had ended when Lord Gerhard had died, after Dreadfort having been under siege by King Harlon Stark for nearly two years. _If only Gerhard had died sooner, mayhaps I would still have a mother, brother and a sister._ Bernarr's father, two uncles and oldest brother had died in the Battle of White Knife during the first year of the war, which had been a decisive moment in the conflict. In that same battle Bernarr's second oldest brother Goren had surrendered and been sent to the Wall, where he still presumably served in the Night's Watch. After the Battle of White Knife the newly crowned King Harlon had besieged Dreadfort while his brother Prince Karlon rode north-east to crush House Grastan – the last remaining ally of the Boltons – on the Grey Cliffs.

Bernarr's third oldest brother Erryk had died of a fever just four months after the beginning of the siege. Being just two years older than him Erryk had always been the sibling Bernarr was the closest with, and losing him had been the most shocking tragedy of his life up to that moment. However, less than a week later it had been surpassed by the death of his mother, Lady Mya of House Grastan. Maester Mylon had told Bernarr and his then seven-year-old little sister Emma that their mother had died of a grief that drove her mad, and only years later Bernarr had realized it meant she had taken her own life. After their mother's death Bernarr and Emma had found comfort in each other, but just two weeks before Gerhard died and the siege ended Emma had died as well, weakened and ultimately claimed by the famine and sickness that had taken over Dreadfort during the last months of the siege.

It had been Bernarr's eleventh nameday when he was made to bend his knee to the Starks and swore King Harlon his allegiance before this heart tree, and in return he had been allowed to keep the seat and lordship that had belonged to his family for thousands of years. Nearly nine years had passed since that day.

Bernarr heard something and turned around, seeing his lady wife Unella descending the stone stairs leading down to the godswood, in her arms their three-months-old baby boy wrapped in warm wool cloths. Unella was a fair young lady of seventeen years, with a kindly face, big blue eyes and wavy brown hair that was tied into a thick braid. She was the daughter of the Stark king's master-at-arms Urrathon of House Poole, a lesser house that the Boltons of old would've never accepted a bride from. Bernarr however hadn't had much choice when King Harlon had suggested the betrothal to him two years ago.

"My lord," Unella greeted him with her tender and innocent voice, and Bernarr smiled at her. The baby let out a small bawl as he saw his father, which made Bernarr chuckle. "Has Robar had his breakfast yet?" he asked calmly, and Unella nodded. Bernarr had named his first son after his eldest brother who had died fighting side by side with their father Regis Bolton. Looking into his son's icy pale eyes, Bernarr's smile slowly faded.

"What's on your mind, dear?" Unella asked. Bernarr turned his gaze to the ground, where he saw a few yellow and red leaves on the grass. _Winter is coming indeed._

"Memories," Bernarr said with a sigh. "The message from Winterfell that arrived yesterday has reminded me of things I'd rather forget."

"You feel conflicted," Unella said with a calm and understanding tone.

"Of course I do," Bernarr responded with a slightly frustrated tone. "I must once again kneel before King Harlon and shame the memory of my father and brothers by fighting under the banner of their killers."

"I understand how you feel," Unella assured softly. "However, Harlon is a fair and just man. Serve him well and he will reward you as handsomely as any other of his bannermen."

His wife's words didn't exactly surprise Bernarr, he knew Unella had spent her childhood in Winterfell and viewed the Starks as family. Bernarr found her to be a sweet and lovable young woman, but moments like these reminded him that there was a reason King Harlon had chosen her as his bride. _Her job is to make me forgive the Starks and remain loyal to Harlon, or else. A softly delivered threat, but a threat nonetheless._

Bernarr kissed Unella gently on her forehead and looked at their son once more. "I should go see Torren before he leaves," he said and took his leave from the godswood.

Entering the inner courtyard Bernarr found the captain of the guards Torren Ironthorns preparing his men and horses for their mission to levy troops from the Bolton lands, all of them wearing pink tabards displaying the flayed man. The captain had earned his nickname with his stern and harsh personality, as well as the small iron spikes attached into his gauntlets.

"Mylord," Torren greeted Bernarr with a stern and dutiful tone. He was a tall and broad man on his late thirties with a bushy black beard, receding hairline and small dark brown eyes. "There was something I wanted to ask from you."

"Go ahead," Bernarr replied calmly, even though he could already see from the man's eyes what he was thinking. Torren was a veteran of the last war and had fought beside Regis Bolton on the White Knife, and he certainly had no love for the Starks.

"There will be many who refuse to take up arms to fight for the Stark king," Torren said bluntly. "Many lost their brothers, fathers and sons in the last war. Those wounds are still fresh, the people still bitter. How do you wish me to act with those who refuse your call to arms?"

Bernarr remained quiet for a moment. He could hardly blame any man for feeling bitter towards the Starks, for he shared the sentiment, but as a lord he also had to assert his authority over his people. "No killings, if it can be avoided," he started quietly. Boltons of old were not known for their mercy, but Bernarr had never been like them. "Try to persuade them, remind them of their duty, tell them their lord shares their pain and promise their loyalty will be well rewarded. From those who continue to refuse after all that, extort supplies and a fee of ten silver coins."

"Understood, mylord," Torren responded and returned to his duties.

After watching Ironthorns leading his men out of Dreadfort, Bernarr walked around the muddy yards of his castle. He went to see blacksmith Herman and his apprentices Jyllen, Little Ben and Sweetjon at work making spearheads, arrowheads, halfhelms, greaves and vambraces for the coming war. The smithy was burning hot as there was fire burning in all three furnaces, a rhythmic clanking sound could be heard from the back as Jyllen was using the hammer and anvil, and all four of them were reddened and sweating heavily from the heat.

"Good work, Herman," Bernarr complimented as he observed the first finished spearheads and arrowheads. "Join me on the high table at tonight's feast."

"Thank you, mylord," the bald and grey-bearded blacksmith muttered with a deep bow.

Next Bernarr went to see the butcher Morgan who was cutting pork loins and venison ribs for the evening's feast. Even the usually laughing and lighthearted Morgan seemed concerned by what was to come. And no wonder, the forty-year-old man carried on his forehead a scar left by an axe as a reminder from the last war. Kennelmaster Fern, brewer Jorgen and the cook Bold Bors also seemed more tense than usually when Bernarr went to see them.

Finally, as it was almost noon Bernarr made his way to the southern tower, where the ravenry and maester's quarters were located. Entering Maester Mylon's room, Bernarr found Dreadfort's portly steward Sam Snow conversing with the maester.

"Mylord," the maester and steward spoke in unison.

"Good day," Bernarr responded as he sat down by the window with a sigh, looking at the godswood beneath him.

"We were just discussing the supplies required for the march ahead," Sam Snow spoke with his quavering voice, his walrus mustache wobbling above his meaty lips.

"And?" Bernarr asked calmly.

"Everything should be in order, mylord," Maester Mylon responded with his calm and cultured voice. "Dreadfort will have to come by with less than usually until the next harvest, but then again there will be less of us here anyway."

"Have you chosen the castellan yet?" Sam asked curiously.

"Steffon Lightfoot will do," Bernarr answered, referring to the elderly master-at-arms of the castle. "I would like to have a word with the maester in private."

"At once, mylord," Sam said quickly with a deep bow and took his leave.

"Is there something on your mind, Bernarr?" Mylon asked calmly after the door was closed. He was a wise, caring and observant old man, and after the war he had been the closest thing to a parent Bernarr had had. Mylon had taught him how to be a lord, including everything from reading and writing to the art of warfare.

"I'm sure you know what is in my mind," Bernarr spoke with a sullen tone, and Mylon nodded knowingly.

"You don't want to fight for the Starks," the maester stated nonchalantly.

"It feels wrong," Bernarr muttered, clenching his fists as he stared out of the window. "I'm betraying my father and brothers."

For a moment silence lingered in the room, until Maester Mylon spoke up again. "Your first and foremost duty to them is to secure the future of House Bolton. You are not the first Lord of Dreadfort to kneel to the Starks in order to survive."

"I know," Bernarr said with a sigh, turning towards the maester again. "However, perhaps… when King Harlon marches against the Ironborn with all his might, instead of following him I should take the opportunity to attack Winterfell and raze it to the ground."

A thin smile formed behind Mylon's grey beard. "My role is to advice you, and if you choose to rise against the Starks I will advice you in your efforts just as I advised your grandfather. However, Lord Gerhard wasn't always eager to hear my advice, especially when it came to knowing when to give up. I would say his stubbornness is just as much to blame for the deaths of your father, mother, sister and brothers as the Starks are."

"So, you advise me to remain loyal to the Starks?" Bernarr asked quietly. For a moment the maester studied the young lord's face with his sharp grey-green eyes, then he nodded. "I do," he confirmed calmly. "It is up to you what kind of lord you want to be, but I've always seen you as someone who cares for the wellbeing of your people. Keep the peace and raise your son to be a strong and wise lord, and perhaps the finest hour of House Bolton is yet to come. On the other hands, seek war against the Starks now and risk not only the wellbeing of your people and your son, but also every dream and hope that your father and grandfather and their forefathers before them had for the future of House Bolton."

Bernarr felt a single tear rolling down his cheek as his mind wandered back to everyone he had lost. "I understand what I must do," he said with a defeated tone. "I must discard my personal grief and pride for the good of the legacy of my house. Thank you for your counsel, Maester Mylon."

Gently the maester lowered his wrinkled hand on Bernarr's shoulder, a warm smile forming on his face. "You're a wise young lord, Bernarr Bolton."


	36. Arthur II

**Arthur**

The seventy-seven Warrior's Sons that had left Gulltown had been on the road for nearly a week now, having been hosted every night by a different landed knight or minor lord. During their journey so far they had also been joined by around fifty freeriders and hedge knights, increasing their numbers to well over a hundred mounted men.

The sun was still high up on the clear blue sky, painting the fields, meadows, rivers and lakes of the Vale of Arryn beneath it with vibrant and beautiful colors. Arthur had travelled across the Vale a lot throughout his advanced age and knew they would reach Ironoaks before sundown. He had even sent Ser Gareth Grafton and Ser Osbert Shett to race ahead that morning to announce their arrival to Lord Waynwood.

"It was a good idea to send those two boys ahead," Ser Eddard Egen said with a grin as they arrived at the Iron Lake. "Better keep 'em busy since they're so eager to prove themselves."

Arthur smiled thinly at his friend's words. "They're young and oblivious to what lays ahead of us," he said calmly, looking at the light of the afternoon sun glimmering on the calm surface of the vast lake to their left. "They will return from Riverlands as men, or not at all."

Half an hour before reaching Ironoaks they could already faintly see the highest of the castle's white towers rising above the lake in the distance. The ancestral home of House Waynwood was built on a small island near the northern coast of the Iron Lake, connected to the lakeshore by a thirty yards long and dozen yards wide stone bridge. By the lakeshore to the east of the castle there was a large village, and to the north and west a verdant forest filled with tall and strong oaks that had given the castle its name.

The gates of Ironoaks were opened and the drawbridge lowered when Ser Arthur led his lieutenants over the bridge and into the castle. Above the gates the green-and-black broken wheel banners of House Waynwood flew side by side with the blue-and-white falcon-and-moon banners of House Arryn, and the sound of high-pitched trumpets welcomed them into the cobbled courtyard where Lord Waynwood together with his family was waiting for them.

The Waynwoods were a big family. Around the old lord were flocked two of his brothers and sisters-in-law, three sons and two daughters-in-law, four nephews, two nieces, three grandsons and four granddaughters, three grandnephews and a grandniece. However, Arthur knew there could have been at least one more, as the lord's thirdborn son Ser Medgar had died in the Battle of Six Kings sixteen years ago.

Lord Wendel Waynwood himself was a chubby sixty-year-old man with gout. He was restricted to a wheelchair, which was pushed around by the castle's wiry and relatively young maester with a narrow face and poor posture. Wendel was a joyful man with puffy facial features, pasty white skin, thick grey mustache, balding head and bright green eyes.

"Welcome, welcome to Ironoaks, Warrior's Sons!" the Lord of Ironoaks bellowed with a cheerful tone as Arthur and his lieutenants dismounted their horses.

"We are honored by your hospitality, Lord Waynwood," Arthur said with a deep bow.

"Arthur, it's been too long!" Wendel said with a wide grin, gesturing for him to come closer, and as Arthur did so the Waynwood lord grabbed his right hand and shook it with a surprising vigor. "You old devil ain't wasting away, are you? By the gods, I am jealous of you, Ser Arthur. To be so strong and healthy at your age. One would think you're the younger one between the two of us!"

"I would gladly switch places with you if I could, Lord Wendel," Arthur responded with a smirk, only half in jest. "It seems to me your halls are filled with laughter and life, while my only company are grim and zealous old men."

Wendel laughed heartily at his words. "I don't think you're being entirely honest with me, Arryn," he said lightheartedly, glancing at Gareth and Osbert who stood by the stairs leading up to the great hall. "From what I gather you've found yourself a couple of young and eager disciples."

"Young, eager and arrogant," Arthur replied nonchalantly, and once again Lord Wendel burst into laughter.

A plentiful feast was held that evening in the great hall of Ironoaks. Arthur sat on the dais between Lord Wendel and his heir Ser Wyllis, who was a broad and stocky man on his early forties. Arthur only allowed himself a single cup of wine, but as the night went on his company got progressively more drunk. Wendel told a hunting story from his youth, claiming that he had nearly been ripped open by a boar, but managed to jump on its back and kill it by stabbing his dagger to its brains. Arthur vaguely remembered having heard the story before. Then Ser Wyllis long-windedly told about a grand tourney in Heart's Home that he had taken part in three years ago, the story concluding to him being unhorsed on the second round by King Oswell himself.

"Don't tell the lad when you see him, but I let him win," Wyllis claimed with an arrogant smirk. "He had just recently been crowned, you know. People would've taken it as a bad omen for the new king to be unhorsed on the second round. Let it not be said that Ser Wyllis Waynwood doesn't consider the best of his kingdom."

Eventually the topic of discussion drifted into the last war, and the son Lord Wendel had lost to it. "Medgar was even younger than them back then," he said grimly, looking Gareth and Osbert who were laughing with the lord's nephews and grandsons at the lower tables. "I was the one who suggested him to join the Warrior's Sons." There was a sting of regret and shame in the old lord's words.

"Your son served well, and was eager to prove his worth in battle," Arthur said with a calm and careful tone. "And he did, he fought well, taking down many of the Storm King's knights before falling."

In truth Arthur hadn't seen how Ser Medgar Waynwood had fought in the Battle of Six Kings, in fact he had only learned of his death hours after the battle was over. However, not all lies were evil, and his words did bring a thin but proud smile on Lord Wendel's face.

"He was always such a good and decent boy," he said, tears welling up in his eyes. "Hard-working, honest and humble. He deserved so much more than to die fighting some riverman's war hundreds of miles away from home."

"He fought for the Seven," Arthur gently reminded the lord. "And… perhaps by winning this coming war we can make sure his death was not in vain."

"I wish you and your men all the good fortune in the world, Ser Arthur," Wendel said emotionally.

By first light of the next morning the Warrior's Sons gathered for a prayer in the sept of Ironoaks, after which they prepared to continue their journey towards the Eyrie. Two of the Waynwoods decided to join them, and with them a dozen men from the household guard. Ser Alan Waynwood was the youngest of Lord Wendel's nephews, being a thin and tall man on his late twenties with a flowing black hair that reached beneath his shoulders, a patch of beard on his chin, and sharp grey-green eyes. Matthew Waynwood on the other hand was the only son of Lord Wendel's second son Ser Osbert. He was a green and beardless boy of no more than seventeen years, and yet to be knighted.

The journey from Ironoaks to Eyrie went much like the one from Gulltown to Ironoaks, with landed knights and minor lords hosting them every night and nearly a hundred more freeriders and hedge knights joining them along the way. On the afternoon of the sixth day since leaving Ironoaks they finally saw the seven slender white towers of Eyrie astride the peak of the Giant's Lance, thousands of feet above the valley below. By the time they reached the Gates of the Moon at the base of the mountain the sun had already sunk behind the Mountains of the Moon in the west.

Gates of the Moon were a large and formidable fortress, but plain in comparison to the beautiful Eyrie high up in the mountain. Arthur and his men were welcomed in the vast outer courtyard by Ser Herman Hardyng, the Keeper of the Gates of the Moon. Ser Herman looked much like his late older brother and Arthur's dear friend Ser Hallis, sharing his peaceful blue eyes, chiseled jawline and sandy blonde hair – though it had begun to turn grey. Memories from before the last war surfaced in Arthur's mind, making it almost painful to look at Ser Herman.

"The Lone Falcon has invited you to visit him in the Eyrie tomorrow," Herman told Arthur, referring to King Oswell II Arryn, who also happened to be Arthur's grandnephew.

They called the young king 'the Lone Falcon' because he had been the only child of his father King Hubert III Arryn, and because despite being already four and twenty, he was yet to choose himself a bride. The last time Arthur had seen Oswell was over three years ago, when the young king had visited Gulltown and its chapterhouse during the royal progress following his coronation. Arthur remembered Oswell as a bright and courteous young man, but despite being of the same flesh and blood they didn't know each other very well. _His invitation is surely just a simple gesture of good will._

Nonetheless, after breaking his fast next morning Arthur began the long climb up to the Eyrie, escorted by a young lad named Kevan. Riding mules through the forested path from the Gates of the Moon to the first waycastle called Stone was easy enough. However, the trail from Stone to the second waycastle called Snow was steeper and more hazardous, including several spots where they had to dismount their mules and lead them by foot. It was well past noon when they reached Snow, where they stopped for a bowl of beef stew and couple cups of hot mulled wine.

The climb from Snow – where they left the mules – to the third waycastle called Sky was where Arthur began to truly feel his age. The steep steps were in many places cracked and broken, and always open to the winds that even during summer were quite cold up there. By the time they reached Sky Arthur was panting, his back was aching, and his legs felt like a pair of heavy logs. Not since he was eight years old had Arthur ever used the wooden baskets pulled by chain winches to get from the Sky to the Eyrie, but now he had to humble himself. _I've truly become old,_ he thought with some embarrassment as he sat down to the basket.

Arthur sat by the fire in the Eyrie's reception hall known as the Crescent Hall, which somehow felt colder and quieter than he remembered from his childhood summers. A couple of guardsmen clad in sky-blue tabards loitered lazily around the doorway, and a servant girl brought Arthur a cup of honeyed wine and some bread.

Eventually Arthur was approached by Myles Moore, the steward of the Eyrie. He was a short and stout man on his early fifties, with a short fair hair, a pale cleanshaven face streaked with deep lines, and mild grey eyes. The man had served in the household of Eyrie for over two decades, having been appointed for his task by King Hubert.

"King Oswell has been waiting for you, Ser Arthur," Myles spoke with a dryly polite tone. "Please, follow me to the Moon Tower."

The steps of Arthur and Myles Moore echoed in the bright and austere marble hallways and stairways as they made their way towards the Moon Tower, where the royal chambers were located.

"So, has His Grace found a suitable bride yet?" Arthur asked after a moment, breaking the silence.

Myles gave him a curious look before answering. "His Grace is considering between a few suitors," he said laconically.

"May I inquire whom exactly?" Arthur asked calmly. Myles remained silent for a few seconds before giving Arthur a nod, a jaded expression on his face.

"Lord Amory Royce has a fifteen-year-old granddaughter named Anya. A sweet and pretty girl, from what I gather, and from an ancient and powerful family," he spoke with an utterly disinterested tone. "However, Lord Martyn Melcolm has offered a much greater dowry for his daughter of nineteen, Mylena Melcolm. There are rumors that the girl is a bit dim though. His Grace has also considered Larra Corbray, the second daughter of Lord Lewyn Corbray, even though I have strongly advised him against it. The girl is undeniably a beauty, and just a year younger than His Grace, but that is about all she has to offer. The Corbrays are not as wealthy as they once were, and King Oswell marrying a secondborn daughter with a lesser dowry would be seen as an insult by both Lord Royce and Lord Melcolm."

"I see," Arthur responded as they already approached the doors of the royal chambers. "Well, I hope His Grace makes his choice soon. These halls are in dire need of the laughter of children."

Entering the king's audience room Arthur saw Oswell standing by the window, which opened a view to the valley in the south. Hearing the sound of the door the young king quickly spun around. "Great-uncle!" he exclaimed with a charming smile.

Oswell Arryn was a handsome young man with the frame of a warrior, smiling bright blue eyes, medium length light blonde hair and a thin beard of similar color. The young king was dressed in an attire of sky-blue silks adorned with silver and sapphires.

"Your Grace," Arthur spoke with a respectful tone as he kneeled before his king.

"Please, call me Oswell," the King said as he offered Arthur his hand and helped him back up on his feet. Studying the old knight's face, Oswell clearly noticed how weary Arthur was from the climb. "My apologies for the inconvenience, ser. The climb up is never pleasant."

"There is no inconvenience great enough to dismiss a king's invitation," Arthur responded with a polite smile. "Besides, climbing up to the Eyrie again has brought up many fond memories from decades ago."

"I'm sure," Oswell said with a soft chuckle. "Come, join me for a cup of Arbor gold and cheeses from the Free City of Pentos."

"Gladly, Your Grace."

Oswell led Arthur to a small table by the window, where the servants had already left a silver platter filled with cheeses and poured wine for them both.

"I assume the raven I sent from Gulltown arrived here?" Arthur asked calmly, to which Oswell nodded in confirmation. "Indeed, it did. However, I learned about this Lucifer Justman and his ambitions even before that. You see, a raven from Stoney Sept arrived here as well."

"Lucifer Justman asks for your aid?" Arthur asked with a raised eyebrow.

"He does," Oswell confirmed calmly. "However, as much as I hope he will succeed, for now I cannot march in his aid. Starting a war with the Storm King would be too big of a risk, and I must prioritize the wellbeing of my own people above all else."

"Of course," Arthur agreed, nibbling on a spicy cheese.

"That said, I am beyond grateful that you are able to lead at least some knights of the Vale in aid of our brothers in Faith," the young king said, taking a sip of the Arbor gold while his attentive eyes studied Arthur's face. "There was also something important I wanted to ask from you."

"I am yours to command, Your Grace."

"When you are with this Lucifer Justman, be it on a feast, sept or battlefield, I want you to pay attention to him and the men around him," King Oswell said, his tone suddenly a bit more focused. "See who is truly in command, how competent of a king this Lucifer is, and whether or not he is a worthy ally for the Kingdom of Mountain and Vale. If he indeed wins this war and establishes himself as the King of the Trident, I want you to return here and report to me all that you've seen and heard."

"I will, Your Grace," Arthur responded dutifully. _If indeed I live long enough to do so._


	37. Barron IV

**Barron**

It was a gray and damp day. Prince Barron gazed at the sturdy walls made of pale grey stone that guarded Duskendale, a large port town standing by the Blackwater Bay. Behind those walls could be seen the smoke rising from its many homes, the tiled roofs of the town's tallest manses, the domed roofs of its many septs, as well as the Dun Fort itself with its formidable square keep and drum towers, overlooking the town and its harbor from atop a hill.

Barron stood at the head of an army of four-thousand men, by his side Lord Edgar Fell, Lord Hugh Hasty, and Lord Denys Stokeworth, who had joined them yesterday as they had marched past Castle Stokeworth. Lord Denys was an old and sinewy man with a serious face and cold grey-green eyes. He also happened to be the brother-in-law of Lord Renly Darklyn.

Barron had sent Denys' son and heir Ser Steffon Stokeworth with Lord Nestor Follard and Ser Tyler Wendwater north to court the support of the Buckwells and Hartes, and Ser Owen Rosby with Ser Yohn Farring and Ser Erwin Hayford north-west to Sow's Horn to do the same with House Hogg. He had also sent Lord Jaremy Errol and the Buckler brothers to Castlewood to report their progress to Lord Harlton.

The gates of the town were closed, and guardsmen clad in chainmail hauberks and armed with spears manned the walls. Barron had already sent a man to announce them to the guards and ask them to be let in, only to be refused.

"Is your brother-in-law always this welcoming, Lord Stokeworth?" Barron asked sarcastically, to which Denys scoffed quietly. "Lord Renly has always been about as welcoming as a rabid dog," he stated dryly.

Barron sighed, letting his gaze wander along the town walls. Spearmen could be seen every couple dozen feet from each other, for as far as his eyes could see. _We have no chance of taking this town with an assault,_ he admitted to himself with some frustration. Most of all he was frustrated by the fact that Lord Renly knew just as well that they had no chance, which gave him all the leverage in this situation. _If only we had marched here with the full might of the Storm King, as we did sixteen years ago._

"Ah, Duskendale," Lord Fell spoke up with a joyless grin on his face. "A stinking pile of shit, lowlifes and more shit."

"It's the closest thing to a real city I've ever been to," Barron stated nonchalantly, remembering his last visit there shortly after the war against the Teagues had been won. He hadn't particularly enjoyed his stay there, but admittedly it had mostly been due to Lord Renly Darklyn being such an unpleasant man to be around.

"Duskendale is like an innocent and peaceful little village in comparison to Oldtown," Denys claimed. "I visited that den of depravity thirty years ago when I escorted my thirdborn son Torbert to the Citadel. Lived nearly a month there, which was enough for a lifetime."

"Anything that makes Duskendale look innocent in comparison is something I want to stay far away from," Lord Hasty said calmly. He was a veteran of two wars, as well as a private and mild-mannered man on his early fifties.

"Perhaps we should just move on and leave Lord Darklyn to rot within his walls," Edgar Fell suggested with a sigh. "We already have more than four-thousand men. Add to that the troops of all the river lords still loyal to Lord Blackwood, and we should have more than enough men to crush whatever meager support this Lucifer Justman has managed to muster."

"You're assuming his support is meager," Barron remarked sharply. "Personally, I'm inclined to be less optimistic. There are many in the Riverlands who remained loyal to the Teagues until the very end, and many more who do not recognize the Storm King as their rightful ruler. Not to mention that the Justmans are celebrated in songs and folktales as the last truly strong and beloved dynasty of river kings. It may be obvious to any learned man that this Lucifer is nothing more than a mummer with a crown, but the common folk will be more eager to believe his lies, especially since they are spoken to them with the authority of the Faith Militant."

"Prince Barron is right," Lord Stokeworth agreed sternly. "You need House Darklyn."

Few more minutes went by, until finally the western gates were opened. Out rode three mounted men, one of them carrying the Darklyn banner of sable and gold diamonds, and another one a blank white banner of peace. The man leading them was a tall and broad-shouldered knight clad in dark steel armor with a red cloak donned over the shoulders and fastened by golden clasp in the shape of a diamond. Unlike the two others he wore no helmet, showing his morose face with small dark blue eyes, large nose, greasy jet-black hair that was combed back, bushy eyebrows and side-whiskers, strong jawline and a small patch of beard on his chin. Though it had been a long time, Barron recognized the man as Ser Edwyn Darkly, the now almost forty-year-old son and heir of Lord Renly.

"Greetings, mylords," Ser Edwyn spoke tensely, his eyes shifting between the four of them. "I am Ser Edwyn Darklyn, the firstborn son of my lord father Renly Darklyn, who has sent me here to inquire what is your business in Duskendale."

"We have sent your father half-a-dozen ravens before our arrival, he knows bloody well what our business here is," Barron answered sternly, glaring at the knight with fury in his eyes. "Let us through your gates and I may remind his lordship personally in case he has forgotten."

"House Darklyn is in middle of a conflict," Edwyn said strictly. "My lord father does not wish to let a strange army inside his town."

"A _strange_ army?" Barron bellowed angrily. "Do you not recognize the banner of your king, ser?"

"Or the face of your uncle, for that matter," Lord Stokeworth added dryly.

Edwyn sighed in frustration. "My father's instructions are not to let your army through the gates, Prince Barron," he insisted. "However, perhaps I could escort you and your companions to meet Lord Renly in the Dun Fort."

Barron glanced at Lord Denys, who gave him a reassuring nod. "Fine then, lead the way," the old prince said to Ser Edwyn, before turning towards his companions. "Lord Hasty, stay here and inform Queen Shana and the troops about what is happening," he commanded. _Even Renly Darklyn wouldn't dare to hurt or capture the uncle of the Storm King._

"Follow me, mylords," Edwyn then spoke, before turning around and leading them towards the gates. In silence they rode through the cobbled streets of the town, gathering curious looks from townsfolk who peered at them from the windows and alleyways.

"I apologize for the caution," Edwyn finally spoke up again as they approached the upward path leading to the gatehouse of the Dun Fort. "I've seen a town being sacked before and would like to avoid even the slightest chance of it happening here in my beautiful Duskendale."

"Aye, I've seen a town being sacked before as well," Denys spoke grimly, giving a meaningful glance at his nephew. "Hard to forget, given that we were the ones doing the sacking back in Harroway's town. What happened there was a travesty."

"It was war," Edwyn simply replied, avoiding eye contact with his uncle.

Without further conversation they rode through the open gates of the Dun Fort to its pentagonal courtyard. While dismounting his horse, Barron's eye was immediately caught by a knight clad in a shining red armor sparring against two swordsmen at the same time. He moved with an impressive speed and grace, and before long he had made both of his opponents yield. Upon noticing Prince Barron and his companions the knight removed his helmet, revealing a flowing strawberry-blond hair, lively green eyes and a handsome cleanshaven face of a man on his late twenties. Barron also just now noticed the three golden crowns painted on the knight's chest plate. _House Hollard,_ he realized, faintly remembering having heard over a decade ago that Lord Darklyn had married his sole daughter off to the heir of Hollard Castle.

"Ser Edric," Edwyn spoke to the man with an authoritative tone, to which the younger knight responded with a dutiful nod, listening as Edwyn continued. "Would you fetch my lord father and tell him Prince Barron Durrandon is waiting for him in the solar."

"Of course, ser," Ser Edric Hollard responded politely with a thin smile. "However, Lord Renly is currently enjoying a bath, so I'm afraid you might have to wait for a while before he joins you."

"No matter," Edwyn responded with a small sigh, and with another dutiful nod the Hollard knight took his leave.

"Come," Edwyn grunted at Barron and his companions, gesturing for them to follow him into the main keep. "I'll arrange us some refreshments in the solar while we wait for my noble father."

The solar was located in the highest story of the tall keep, its black and yellow latticework windows offering a view towards the sea. Looking at the distant waves crashing against the chalk cliffs north of the town made Barron wonder how his nephew's war efforts in the south had progressed. _I hope whatever you gain in Dorne is worth putting Arlan's legacy at risk,_ he thought bitterly, and not for the first time.

Ser Edwyn soon joined them, at his coattails coming half-a-dozen, who poured red wine into their goblets and placed cheeses, fruits, biscuits and bread on the table. Barron sat down and took a sip of the wine. It had a sweet and rich taste, most likely an imported vintage from across the Narrow Sea.

"So, I take it this Lucifer Justman we've heard of is more than just a rumor," Edwyn spoke up, breaking the tense silence in the room.

"It would seem so, yes," Barron responded calmly, taking a bite from an apple. "However, regardless of who he really is, this Lucifer Justman is just a figurehead. In truth our war is against the Faith Militant, who in turn are little more than the High Septon's iron fist."

"I'm glad they've been driven out of Duskendale," Edwyn said, a thin smirk forming on his face. "What was once their chapterhouse is now used to store wines and other valuable imports."

"How practical," Edgar Fell commented. "Wouldn't want all that space to go to waste."

Tense silence lingered on the room for a few moments again, until Ser Edwyn once again spoke up. "So, if there will indeed be a war in the Riverlands, why have you marched here with such a small army, Prince Barron?"

Barron took another sip from his wine, looking Ser Edwyn and considering his answer. "The Storm King is marching against the Principality of Dorne with his strongest bannermen," he decided to reveal the truth. "He believes the situation in Riverlands can be resolved with… lesser forces."

"That means you and me, Ser Edwyn," Lord Fell quipped with a smirk, raising his cup theatrically for the Darklyn knight.

A couple minutes passed, after which an old man entered the room. However, Barron could see immediately that it wasn't Lord Renly. This man was chubby and short, with watery blue-green eyes, soft facial features and sparse grey hair around his bald head. "Seven blessings to you, my prince, mylords," he greeted them with a respectful tone.

"Lord Damion, what are you doing here?" Ser Edwyn asked with a frown.

"Ser Edric told me we have royal guests, and as the steward of the Dun Fort I believe it is my concern to make sure such important guests are treated appropriately," the old man explained, before turning towards Barron with a polite smile on his face. "Prince Barron, I am Lord Damion Darke, the steward of this castle. I trust you've been given a warm welcome."

"Aye, if only Lord Renly would bother to join us," Barron responded with a surly tone.

"My apologies, your highness," Damion responded with a humble nod. "His lordship can be a bit… negligent, at times."

"Oh, trust me, I know what kind of man Lord Renly is," Barron said grimly.

What felt like an hour went by, before finally Lord Renly Darklyn joined them in the solar. He was a tall but slightly crouched man, with long black hair that began to turn grey, a pale and gaunt cleanshaven face streaked with wrinkles, folds and warts, as well as a prominent nose and chin. As he looked at them, Barron could see only contempt and apathy in the Darklyn lord's small, dark and deep-set eyes.

"Father, this is…"

"I know who it is," Lord Renly harshly cut off his son, glaring at Barron. "Prince Barron Durrandon, the noble brother – no, uncle of our beloved king in Storm's End."

"Lord Darklyn," Barron greeted the man tensely.

"I hope the army that you've brought outside my walls isn't meant to intimidate me, because in that it fails miserably," Renly said with a mocking tone as he sat down and poured wine for himself.

"That army is meant to defeat the false king Lucifer Justman," Barron stated calmly. "With your aid, Lord Renly."

"Ah, yes, of course," the man muttered, gulping down his wine with a single swing. "You've come to beg for my aid."

"I've come to demand it, in the name of the Storm King," Barron said, his tone slightly stricter now. Anger flared in the Darklyn lord's eyes for a moment, before he let out a dismissive scoff. "And where exactly is the Storm King?"

"He is preoccupied with another conflict in Dorne," Barron answered with a frustrated sigh.

"As it happens, I am preoccupied with a conflict of my own," Renly shot back.

"I've heard," Barron said, just barely containing his anger. "This petty feud between you and Lord Staunton must be put to an end at once. The coming war in Riverlands is more important."

"It is not my war," Renly insisted.

Barron narrowed his eyes as he glared at Renly, but the old lord didn't falter under his gaze. "It will be your war sooner or later," Barron said sternly. "I'm sure you've read your history and know that there was once a time when the Justmans ruled over Duskendale. If this Lucifer manages to take Riverlands, this is where he will turn to next."

For a moment Renly Darklyn remained silent, clearly considering Barron's words. "March with me to crush Lord Staunton, and I will march with you to crush Lucifer Justman," he offered after a while.

"No," Barron refused firmly. "We shall arrange an exchange of hostages with Lord Staunton, and I will lead the peace negotiations between the two of you."

Renly frowned and clenched his fists, clearly reluctant to Barron's proposal. "This conflict was started by him," he hissed. "I didn't kill his fool of a son, and I owe him nothing."

"I know of the things you've done over the years, Lord Renly," Barron said coldly. "You should consider yourself lucky that I am here to help you resolve your disputes for you, and not to charge you for your numerous crimes."

For a moment Renly looked like he wanted to argue against Barron, but then he just let out a joyless chuckle and stood up from his seat. "Fine then, we shall do it your way, Prince Barron," he begrudgingly agreed. "You shall see for yourself what a stubborn buffoon Lord Staunton is."


	38. Walton VI

**Walton**

The hundred-or-so riders led by Lord Symon Tarly, Walton Manderly and Ser Halmon Hunt had been on the road for over a week. On the way they had been joined by a couple dozen freeriders and hedge knights. They had passed through the southern plains, crossed the Cockleswent at Ashford, and on the tenth day they reached the Blueburn and the Three Bridges – the seat of House Bridges.

On the way they had come across a continuous stream of thousands of civilians escaping the war to south. Every castle since Ashford that they came across had been left with a skeleton garrison as the soldiers had marched north, and it looked like that was the case in Three Bridges as well. The ancestral home of House Bridges was built on two islands on the Blueburn, connected to each other and to the river's shores by dark stone bridges.

Lord Symon and his men rode over the first bridge and entered the courtyard on the island closer to the southern shore, where the castle's stables, barracks, smithy, kennel and small sept were located. On that courtyard they were approached by a broad man on his fifties who introduced himself as Ser Humfrey Hastwyck, the master-at-arms of the Three Bridges.

"Oh, how I'd love to march by your side against the Lannisters, Lord Tarly," the man claimed as he escorted them to the bridge connecting the two islands. "Unfortunately, Lord Bridges has tasked me with the duties of castellan while he is gone."

"We all have our roles to play, ser," Symon responded with a respectful tone.

Ser Humfrey held the Tarly men an abundant feast at the castle's great hall, with fruits and plants of the latest harvest, roasted quail and goose, many sorts of sausages, and of course barrels of ale. Ser Halmon played the lute and sang amusing songs about drinking and whoring – which he seemed to know dozens of – throughout the night. The men in the hall sang along, laughed and cheered, but somehow it felt hollow to Walton. The laughter always ended too suddenly and was followed by moments of haunting silence. _Every man here knows this might be their last pleasant evening in this world._

Towards the end of the night Halmon sang a sad song about a mother waiting for her sons to return from war:

 _The lord's man came one day to levy my sons._

 _He said: "March on, sons o' the Reach!"_

 _I wept and sobbed as they marched away,_

 _off to war to fight for their king._

 _March on, sons o' the Reach!_

 _Oh, march on, sons o' the Reach!_

 _The war ahead is long, and your brothers will die,_

 _but I'll pray for you to come back._

 _Now I beg for the gods to spare my sons,_

 _as they march through death and sorrow._

 _They are still so young, and full of life,_

 _and I pray for them to come back._

 _March on, sons o' the Reach!_

 _Oh, march on, sons o' the Reach!_

 _The war ahead is long, and your brothers will die,_

 _but I'll pray for you to come back._

 _A year has gone by, and the seasons have changed,_

 _yet I still wait for you to march home._

 _Mother give us peace, and save my sons,_

 _till then I pray for them to come back._

 _March on, sons o' the Reach!_

 _Oh, march on, sons o' the Reach!_

 _The war ahead is long, and your brothers will die,_

 _but I'll pray for you to come back._

 _The lord's man came back, riding his black horse._

 _With a sullen face he told me:_

" _Your sons have died to protect this land."_

 _Oh, how I prayed for them to come back._

 _March on, sons o' the Reach!_

 _Oh, march on, sons o' the Reach!_

 _The war has taken your lives, and left me with grief,_

 _but I'll pray for you to find peace._

By the time the song was over Walton noticed many of the soldiers swiping tears from their eyes and cheeks. It also made him wonder if he'd ever see his mother again, and whether she even knew her son was about to ride into battle by Lord Tarly's side. The thought tied his stomach in knots, but it also made him feel some queer, grim sort of pride. He was a son of the Reach and would go to battle to protect the land of his forefathers. _I wonder who delivers the news to Lady Alicent in case I fall._

Next morning they continued their ride towards Stonebridge, under dark grey clouds that occasionally showered them with short bursts of rain. Shortly before sundown they reached Stonebridge, finding the town and fort still in the hands of Reachmen and no Lannisters in sight. It was hard to estimate how large an army exactly manned the Stonebridge, but Walton was sure it couldn't be much more than five thousand.

Above the camp erected on the flat fields at the feet of House Caswell's seat could be seen flying a diverse set of banners, from the Caswell's yellow centaur on white to Fossoway's red apple on gold, Ashford's white sun-and-chevron on orange, Roxton's golden rings on sky-blue, Meadows' colorful flowers on green, Cockshaw's red, white and gold feathers on black, Bridges' black stone bridge over three blue streams on white and gold, Sloane's white stars on indigo and orange sun on yellow, Norridge's flaming arrows on blue, Middlebury's green and white diamonds and black saltires on yellow, and Hastwyck's olive and ivory bars. The castle of Stonebridge wasn't a particularly large one, but the lowlands surrounding it made the stone-and-timber keep look taller than it truly was.

While Ser Halmon remained in charge of the men setting up their camp, Lord Symon and Walton rode ahead. Hundreds of men were at work, fortifying the southern banks of the Mander, as well as the ancient bridge that crossed it. Wooden spikes had been erected into the riverbank, to prevent the Lannisters from charging through the river east of the bridge where it was shallow enough for crossing, caltrops had been scattered on the bridge, and at its southern end stood a two feet thick and ten feet tall wooden barrier with a dozen arrowslits and twice as many iron spikes pointing towards the attackers.

Symon and Walton found Lord Oscar Caswell by the castle's northern gates, overlooking the ballistae being raised atop the walls with winches. The Caswell lord was a stout and strong man on his late forties with close-set blue eyes, short sandy hair that was receding and close-cropped beard of a slightly darker tone. He put a cheerful grin on his face as he greeted and welcomed the Tarly lord.

"Lions have drowned on that river before," he said confidently, putting his hand on Symon's shoulder. "Let us drown some more of them together, friend."

"Do you know when they will be here?" Symon asked calmly.

"The scouts that returned today say they'll be here within two days," Oscar answered, his confidence notably flaking. "They say that over twenty-thousand men march towards us under the Lannister banners."

"They won't find an easy triumph here," Symon assured his friend.

Symon and Walton ate a modest dinner at the keep, after which they made their way atop the castle's walls. The sun had just set beneath the horizon in the west, the silver moon and stars beginning to glimmer in the indigo sky. The torches of the men guarding the riverbanks were reflected on the calm and dark waters of Mander. All kinds of sounds could be heard from the camp, distant singing and chatting, horses, swords being sharpened. Despite all that, standing there under the night sky felt strangely peaceful.

"Lord Symon, there is something I need to tell you," Walton suddenly spoke up, unsure what overcame him.

"Yes?" Symon asked calmly, giving him a curious look.

For a moment Walton struggled with his words. "It's just… Either of us could die in this coming battle," he muttered, to which Symon chuckled softly. "I am aware," he quipped with a sad thin smirk.

"No, but there is something that happened before Prince Perceon's tourney, something I should've told you about," Walton said with a gulp, taking in a deep breath before continuing. "Back when the Vyrwels were visiting Horn Hill, I overheard something, after the feast."

Symon narrowed his eyes as he looked at him. "Overheard what?"

"Lord Ilyn, speaking with his brother," Walton said nervously. "They were talking about a plot led by Lord Peake against my family. It's been a while so it's hard to remember every word, but it's clear they mean to start a war against my father, against House Manderly. I… just thought I should tell you, in case I die fighting against the Lannisters."

For a moment Symon studied his squire's face with his eyes, and Walton was afraid he wouldn't believe him. However, then Symon nodded calmly. "That was why you were asking those strange questions before the tourney," he deduced. "Why didn't you tell me then?"

Walton turned his gaze down in embarrassment. "I… didn't know if I could trust you," he admitted with a sigh. "Your daughter is married to Lord Ilyn's heir and carries his child. How could I ask you to… well, turn against your own family?"

Symon let out a deep sigh, turning his gaze away from Walton. "Have you told your family about this?" he asked quietly.

"Yes."

"I see," Symon said, turning to look at Walton again. He was clearly distraught by what he had heard, but managed to give Walton a reassuring smile nonetheless. "For now, we have a war to fight against the Lannisters. After that we shall take care of this mess, peacefully. I do not want a civil war in the Reach, and I'm sure neither does King Greydon."

"Will you speak with the King about this?" Walton asked, his eyes widening slightly.

"I will," Symon promised. "After the war."

"I'm glad to hear that," Walton said with genuine relief. "I just… can't understand what Lord Peake has against my family."

For a moment Symon didn't say anything.

"I consider your father a friend," he finally spoke up, weighing his words carefully. "However, there are many great lords in this kingdom who do not have such a high opinion of him, Lord Peake least of all it seems. Together with lords Hightower and Redwyne your father holds a wealth much greater than even the royal family. Some see it as a threat to the kingdom's stability. Some even whisper that the reason King Greydon hasn't raised the royal tariffs in Oldtown, Arbor and Dunstonbury during his reign is because he fears to upset the three of his wealthiest bannermen."

"But… My father has never shown himself to be in anyway treacherous towards the Gardeners," Walton said with some confusion, and Lord Symon gave him an understanding nod.

"It isn't about any actions taken," he said. "Or even words spoken. It's about the _potential_ of how things might unfold in the future. Hightowers and Redwynes alone, however wealthy they may be, could never threaten the authority the Gardeners have over the rest of the Reach. However, if they were to ally themselves with the Manderlys, whose ambitions of ruling over the Reach in the past have not been forgotten, and it is a whole different situation. I know your father has no such plans, but I also understand the concerns that some lords may have. All it takes is one dispute, one perceived insult or moment of reckless ambition, and the Kingdom of Reach could be torn in two."

"Concerns… or greed," Walton replied tensely. The Peakes had attempted to claim rulership over the Reach in the past as well, they were just as guilty of that as the Manderlys. The only difference was that House Manderly had found its dignity and managed to maintain and increase its wealth and power since the last civil war, while the Peakes had grown bitter and jealous.

"Be that as it may, we are all sons of the Reach," Symon reminded him. "Gardeners and Hightowers, Tarlys and Vyrwels, Peakes and Manderlys. All of us. And we shall settle this as kin."


	39. Allyria II

**Allyria**

The sun was about to set, painting the sea and sky with gold, orange and red. _The colors of House Martell,_ Allyria thought with a smile as she looked at the rough waters through the stained glass windows in the main cabin of the Divider. Usually the spacious room was reserved for Captain Albion Greyjoy, but he had courteously offered it for Princess Allyria to reside in during this journey.

They had left Sunspear that morning. Princess Nymeria had looked concerned sending her youngest daughter on a mission to the seas. "When you meet the Crimson Prince and his people, tell them they are welcome here in Dorne, if they pledge their loyalty to House Nymeros Martell," she had quietly instructed Allyria, out of earshot from Captain Albion or other members of the Outcast Company. Allyria's older sister Sarella had kissed her on both cheeks and told her that she believed in her. "Perhaps I will be an aunt by the time I come back," Allyria had responded cheerfully, softly stroking her sister's pregnant belly. Allyria's eleven-year-old half-brother Vorian Dayne had also begged to come with her, but Nymeria had heard none of it. _I wonder how soon I'll see them all again._

A sudden knock on the door shifted Allyria back to the present and made her turn away from the windows. "Come in," she chirped.

The door was opened and in stepped Ser Samwell Dayne, one of the seven royal guards Nymeria had assigned with protecting Allyria during this mission. "Good evening, my princess," the young knight spoke with an overtly polite tone and deep bow.

"Don't be like that, Sam," Allyria said with a chuckle, which brought a grin on Samwell's face. He was the firstborn son of Ser Jamison Dayne, a famed knight and second son of King Vorian Dayne. Princess Nymeria and Prince Mors had defeated and subjugated the Daynes twenty years ago, which was before Allyria had even been born, and Sam too had been just a babe.

"Everything alright?" the Dayne knight asked as he took a seat.

"Sure," Allyria responded with a relaxed shrug. She had sailed before; her longest voyage having been to Starfall and back four years ago. However, the fact that they were sailing to battle felt quite absurd, and Allyria had to keep reminding herself that that was indeed where they were heading. Of course, she would be kept far away from the fighting, but the thought still almost made her feel nauseous. "This mission is probably the most important thing I've ever done. It's exciting, but also… a bit unnerving."

"I understand," Sam said with a reassuring nod. He was a tall and handsome young man, with flowing dark hair and lilac eyes that he had got from his father. In truth Allyria had had a crush on him since the day he arrived in Sunspear three years ago, freshly knighted and pledging his service to Nymeria. However, back then she had hardly been more than a little girl, having just had her first flowering. _He still sees me as a girl, not a woman,_ Allyria thought as she studied Sam's chiseled face with her eyes. She was also convinced that Sam regularly visited the brothels in Shadow City, which were filled with beautiful and skilled women she would have no chance of competing with. _Unless he is enticed by a maiden's innocence._

"Tell me, Sam, what is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to you?" Allyria decided to ask.

"The most exciting thing?" Sam repeated her words with a raised eyebrow, taking in a deep breath. "Well, the first thing that comes to mind is that time I, my twin brother Ferris and our father got caught up in a sandstorm on our way from Clearhaven to Sandstone. My steed bolted and galloped away from Jamison and Ferris. After the sandstorm was over my horse was bitten by a viper in the sand, which made it rise on its hind legs, throwing me to the sand. I quickly killed the snake, and found the horse laying down and wailing in pain nearby. So, I killed it too and made myself a camp in the desert. I ate some horse and snake meat and laid to rest, and by dawn my father and brother found me."

"Sounds more terrifying than exciting," Allyria said with a stilted chuckle. "How old were you then?"

"Thirteen, I think," Sam responded with a smirk. "Maybe you're right though, perhaps that grand tourney in Lemonwood last year better fits the word 'exciting'. Even though I'm still bitter about that loss against Lord Jeremie Gargalen on the third round, I was so close to unhorsing him in the first tilt."

Allyria remembered it quite well, even though the jousting itself had been perhaps her least favorite part of the tourney. She didn't enjoy watching men breaking each other's bones with lances, but she had quite enjoyed the grand feasts in Lemonwood's gardens, with mummers, poets and minstrels from across Dorne and beyond entertaining the nobility of the Principality all night.

"It was the first time I got drunk," Allyria said amusedly.

"I remember, my princess," Sam responded with a smile. "You giggle a lot when you're drunk."

Allyria blushed in embarrassment. "Oh no, please, let's not talk about that," she said with a little giggle.

"As your highness commands," Sam replied teasingly. "Anyway, the sun's almost down. I should probably go to sleep, Ser Mateo Toland will guard your door tonight."

"Goodnight, ser," Allyria said politely, and Sam gave her another bow at the door.

"Goodnight, my princess."

Around the noon of the next day they arrived at the Broken Arm of Dorne, and after following the jagged coastline for another hour they could see the large and colorful fleet of the pirate king Vyros Nahyr. The ships were huddled by a lofty cliffside, which hid them from the north. _Where the Stormlanders are coming from,_ Allyria realized.

Allyria stood at the prow of the Divider, in the company of five members of the crew. Hakon Sparr was a gruff and seasoned ironborn raider on his mid-sixties, his age and experience marked by his thin white hair and the half-a-dozen scars streaking his weary face, one of them having blinded his left eye. Maester George was a sworn maester of the Citadel on his early forties, who had served for a time in the Pyke, until joining Albion's crew because his services weren't appreciated by Lord Dagon Greyjoy. Tyra Iheira was a buxom and blue-haired Tyroshi woman on her mid-twenties, as well as a disowned daughter of a magister. Faye Morrigen was a young and pretty Stormlander woman, couple years older than Allyria, who had been captured by Tyroshi pirates a little over a year ago and later joined the Divider's crew after they had defeated said Tyroshi pirates in battle and rescued her. And then there was Ser Arthur Jast, twenty-year-old Westerman and the only anointed knight in the Outcast Company, who had joined due to lack of other prospects as the third son of Lord Jast's younger brother. _They truly are a company of outcasts,_ Allyria had come to realize as she got to know the members of the crew.

They approached King Vyros's flagship, a Pentoshi war galley with two-hundred oars, which according to Hakon was called _Kestrel_. Allyria was escorted on the _Kestrel's_ deck by three of her royal guards – Samwell Dayne, Boran Sargen and Artos Sand – as well as Albion Greyjoy and Fenris Snow, while Hakon Sparr and Tyra Iheira carried the large chest of Martell gold.

On the deck they were quickly approached by whom Allyria assumed to be King Vyros, a tall and lean man on his late forties with a bald head and thick black mustache, clad in green and black silks and satins. By his side was an at least a decade younger and distinctly Valyrian man, with a pretty cleanshaven face, large and attentive violet eyes and silky platinum hair that reached well beneath his shoulders.

"Welcome aboard my humble ship, princess," King Vyros spoke up with a respectful bow, while Hakon and Tyra lowered the chest of gold at his feet. "I am Vyros Nahyr, King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, and this here is my companion Laegor Galiar from the Free City of Lys."

"A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace," Allyria responded with a curtsey. "I am Princess Allyria Nymeros Martell, the fourth daughter of Princess Nymeria and the late Prince Mors. Captain Albion as your representative agreed to a contract with my mother, and the price you asked for your service will be paid in three installments." Allyria handed the contract to the pirate king as she spoke, and he read through it quickly.

"And I take it this is the first installment?" Vyros asked calmly, looking at the gold at his feet.

"Yes, Your Grace, five thousand pieces of gold," Allyria confirmed. "Five thousand more will be paid once the threat of the Stormlanders has been averted, and the last five thousand six turns of moon after that. In addition to that, I will act as the envoy you required for the negotiations with the Crimson Prince."

"Fantastic," Vyros said with an unctuous smile on his face. "Thorio!" he yelled, and quickly an older one-eyed man with a bushy dark beard approached him. "Take the gold down to the hold and count it with Jago."

"At once, Your Grace," the man grunted dutifully, and carried the chest away with the help of another crewman. As they had descended under the deck, Vyros shifted his attention to Allyria again.

"Now that we're done with the formalities, perhaps Your Radiance would like to join me for some refreshments at my cabin," the pirate king offered courteously. "I would love to discuss with you in private."

Allyria instinctively glanced at Sam, which Vyros clearly noticed. "Have no fear, my princess, a dignified conversation is all I am asking," he assured gently. "It would take just a few minutes of your time."

"Of course, Your Grace," Allyria agreed with a shy smile, and so Vyros led her to his lavish quarters at the stern of the ship. As they sat down on the cushioned chairs by the round oak table, they were served octopus soup and pale amber wine.

"A Pentoshi vintage," Vyros told after taking his first sip. "I understand Pentos isn't exactly famed for its wines, but having grown up there I have a taste for it."

"It's good," Allyria complimented politely. Sure, she preferred Dornish reds, but as far as white wines went she had certainly had worse. "So, was your father a king?" she inquired curiously, to which Vyros reacted by shaking his head with a hearty laugh.

"No, I'm afraid my father was nothing more than a lowly seaman, who died on the seas before reaching his fiftieth nameday."

"Then how did you become a king, Your Grace?" Allyria asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I used to be a sellsail captain, back when this war between Myr and Tyrosh began," Vyros started calmly, taking in a deep breath with a small smile on his face. "The Myrmen hired me, along with dozens of other captains. I fought with them in one battle near Tyrosh, but the fighting turned against us and I retreated south to the Stepstones, following one of the Myrish crews. Soon we came across two pirate ships, and I knew we were in trouble. Sure, we had the bigger ships, but they were also damaged from the battle and filled with tired and injured men. So, I attacked the Myrish ship before the pirates could, and thus they spared me and my _Kestrel_. The captains of those two pirate ships were Sallyrio Saan and Aelor Celtigar, whom I quickly befriended. They told me they were on the hunt for a certain Lyseni galley transporting a great treasure to the Archon of Tyrosh and offered me a share if I joined them in the hunt."

"And you did?" Allyria asked tensely, gulping down the rest of her wine.

"Aye, I did," Vyros answered with a grin. "And it was the best decision I ever made. You see, we managed to ambush and capture that ship by the Skulls, and the treasure inside it was even greater than any of us had imagined. Enough gold to make a king, ten times over."

"And what about Saan and Celtigar?" Allyria asked with a frown. "Did they not want to become kings?"

"Celtigar took his men and newfound fortune elsewhere, hoping to establish himself a seat on some sorry little isle by Blackwater Bay," Vyros explained with a shrug. "As for Saan, I still see him as an equal, but he never had an interest in crowns or titles."

"Yet you aren't the only one who claims kingship over these waters," Allyria remarked calmly. Vyros's smile died down, but he didn't look angry. "Yes, Dagaphos Bluebeard has admittedly claimed the title of the King of Stepstones longer than I have. However, we've pushed him and his crews out of Merman's Rest, Blackstone, Grey Gallows, Bloodstone and Darkstone, and for the past year he has been hiding in his Shadow Fort in Little Tyrosh. Meanwhile, the Crimson Prince and his freed slaves have taken hold of the Skulls."

"Why do you think an alliance is possible with the Crimson Prince, but not with Dagaphos Bluebeard?" Allyria inquired.

"You have a lot of questions, sweet princess," Vyros said with a soft chuckle, before giving an answer. "Well, for one I have so far avoided any conflict with the Crimson Prince. I also know him to be a man truly in charge of his own decisions, whereas Dagaphos is little more than a puppet of the Tyroshi."

"I see," Allyria said, but quickly another question sprung into her mind. "Why do you even need an alliance with the Crimson Prince? You said you drove Dagaphos Bluebeard away, could you not do the same with him?"

"I would not need an alliance if I could trust that the war between Myr and Tyrosh will never end, or that the Freehold of Valyria itself will never turn its wrath towards Stepstones," Vyros said with a deep sigh. "However, I am not so naïve. I recently heard that the Freehold had crushed a corsair king who had reigned over the Basilisk Isles for nine years uncontested. The dragon's head may turn slowly, but it would be foolish of me to assume they will forever ignore even these crude islands at the edge of their vast empire."

Allyria had heard stories about the greed and savagery of the Valyrian dragonlords plenty of times from her mother, which made her sympathize with Vyros. Against the Freehold he would truly need all the help he could get. "Do you know when the Stormlander fleet will come?" she changed the topic.

"Soon, most likely," Vyros answered calmly. "I have men with far-eyes atop those cliffs. We'll know of the Stormlander fleet hours before it is here."

"You have a strong fleet, Your Grace, but are you sure it is strong enough to turn back the Stormlanders?" Allyria asked.

"It is," the pirate king assured confidently, and that concluded their meeting. As she made her way out, Allyria was immediately approached by Samwell Dayne.

"What do you think about this Vyros?" he asked quietly, escorting her back towards the Divider.

"I'm not sure," Allyria admitted. "But I think we can trust him, at least for now."

To that Sam let out a nervous little laughter. "I don't think it is ever wise to trust a pirate, much less a pirate who calls himself king," he said, glancing around himself to make sure Vyros's men weren't listening.

"I don't think we have much a choice, Sam," Allyria responded with a sigh.

The rest of the day was calm and boring, and Allyria spent it chatting with the crew of the Divider. Maester George told her stories about legendary Iron Kings of the ancient times, some of which she recalled having heard from Maester Olivar in the past.

As they were eating supper Allyria asked Faye Morrigen why she hadn't gone back home after being rescued from the Tyroshi pirates, to which she answered something about how she now saw the Outcast Company as her true family, and went on to excitedly explain how happy she was living free of all the expectations and rules that came with being a noble lord's daughter. Allyria found Faye to be a good person, even if a bit eccentric.

As the sunset was drawing nearer Allyria asked Fenris Snow how he had ended up as member of the Outcast Company. The young Northman didn't seem particularly eager to talk about it but revealed nonetheless that he had almost joined the Night's Watch three years ago before meeting Albion and his crew at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. "Thank the gods I hadn't yet spoken my vows for the Watch," he said with a grim look on his icy blue eyes.

"Why did you consider joining the Night's Watch in the first place?" Allyria asked curiously. Fenris turned his gaze down towards the waters below them, and for a moment she thought he would just ignore her question.

"A bastard child of a Stark and a Bolton is welcome nowhere in the North," he finally spoke quietly. "Except the Wall. Every man is welcome at the Wall, because the Night's Watch needs every man it can get."

"Are Starks and Boltons enemies?"

"Always have been," Fenris answered with a deep sigh, "but now more so than ever. There was a war between them ten years ago. My father died in that war. He was a Stark prince, third son of King Eyron. Fat load of good it did for me, the Starks never allowed me into Winterfell. But at least my father still came to see me every now and then, until the war happened. I had lived in Winter Town my whole life, but suddenly the people there started to call me a bastard of a Bolton, taking out on me all their anger and grief from having lost loved ones to Bolton blades. And as for my Bolton mother, well, I had been separated from her the day that I was born, and she had been married off to some lesser noble lord she went on to give legitimate children for. There was no way I could've ever been accepted among them. I could've gone to Dreadfort, I suppose. However, as much as I was despised in Winter Town for being one, the Boltons to me were nothing but strangers who had killed my father."

"I'm… sorry to hear what you've had to go through," Allyria said apologetically. It was so strange to her, how they were both of royal blood, but just because Fenris was a bastard his life had been so different from hers.

"No need, my princess," Fenris said with a thin smile. "I'm happy now, as part of the Outcast Company."


	40. Bernarr II

**Bernarr**

A thin layer of snow covered the ground and large wet snowflakes floated slowly through the air. Whenever one landed on Bernarr's face or clothes it quickly melted into water.

"Summer snows," Torren Ironthorns had grunted when it began to snow early in the morning. "These will melt away before we reach Winterfell."

The Bolton army of nearly thousand men had begun their march from the Dreadfort six days ago, called to serve the King in the North. Bernarr knew that in the past Bolton lords and kings could've mustered armies three times the size of this, but his grandfather's war had taken its toll. There had also been some who had refused to honor their liege's call to arms, but fewer than Bernarr had feared, and even most of them had agreed to pay a fee of silver for the Boltons. Those that hadn't had been hanged.

By Bernarr's side rode the captain of his guards Torren Ironthorns, as well as Big Ben, a strong and heavyset guardsman on his late forties who had served the Boltons for over two decades. They were both good and loyal men, but Bernarr still found himself wishing that Maester Mylon could've marched with him. After the war the old maester had been his pillar of strength to lean upon, being the closest thing to a parent he had left. However, maester's duties were with the castle they served.

"Why do you suppose King Harlon wants to march on Cape Kraken now?" Big Ben suddenly asked with a frown upon his round and bearded face.

"Starks have fought for the dominion of Cape Kraken against the Ironborn many times in the past," Bernarr remarked calmly. He had no trouble imagining that Harlon Stark coveted the glory of being the King in the North who reclaimed Cape Kraken after the Hoares having held it for centuries. However, Bernarr himself had no interest in that distant piece of land, nor had he ever even met a single ironborn.

"Aye, but why now?" Big Ben insisted. "As far as I see there's no difference between this year and the last, or the one before it. The only thing that's changed is that now winter is almost upon us. So, why has he waited this long?"

"Perhaps something else has changed as well," Ironthorns suggested dryly.

"Aye, perhaps the Stark king has grown so tired of wrestling with his bear of a wife that he needs to make war to get away from her," Ben quipped with a gruff laughter. For a moment Bernarr could see the thinnest of smirks forming on Torren's face. "You better watch your tongue in Winterfell, Ben," the captain then sternly warned his subordinate.

"Aye, I'm not an idiot, cap," Big Ben assured with a grin that revealed his sparse and yellow line of teeth.

Shortly after noon that day they reached the White Knife. The water was clear and ran swiftly, and Bernarr could see bright yellow and red leaves floating on it. He halted his horse at the riverbank, while his troops began to wade their way across the river. "Is this the ford…" he started but cut himself off with a subtle gulp.

"That your father and brother died in?" Ironthorns asked bluntly, having halted by his side. "Yes, mylord."

For a moment Bernarr felt dizzy as he looked at the running water. He had never been to a battle, but he could vividly imagine the one that had taken place here a decade ago. Thousands of men under the banners of Bolton, Grastan, Hornwood, Lightfoot and Ashwood on this side of the river, and on the other side thousands more under the banners of the Starks and their bannermen. _The river must have run red that day._

"The battle was lost when your father fell, mylord," Big Ben said with a sigh. "The Hornwoods were the first to abandon the battlefield, and Ashwoods quickly followed once their lord died. Lord Grastan died fighting as well, and Lord Lightfoot surrendered and bent the knee to the Starks. Those who refused to do so were killed on the spot, butchered like animals and thrown into the river."

"The war was lost that day," Ironthorns muttered. "But at least we killed enough of them that King Harlon didn't dare attempt to take the Dreadfort by storm."

 _Perhaps it would've been better if you hadn't,_ Bernarr thought but didn't say.

After three more days of marching they arrived at Winterfell, seeing the fromidable host that had already gathered on the fields east of the ancient fortress of the Starks. Aside from the Starks' grey direwolf on white, Bernarr spotted among the banners House Hornwood's brown bullmoose with black antlers on orange, House Umber's roaring brown giant on red, and House Lake's seven green pommes on brown. Near the Winter Town could also be seen some white sunbursts on black of Prince Karlon Stark, who had been given lordship over the lands that once belonged to House Grastan, where he had after the war built his own seat called Karl's Hold.

It was hard to tell, but Bernarr reckoned that with the addition of his troops the army was already well over five thousand men strong. He left Big Ben in charge of the troops as they began to set up their camp, and rode towards the main gates of Winterfell together with Torren Ironthorns. The gates of the outer wall were open, and the drawbridge lowered. However, the gates of the inner walls were closed, and a guardsman at the gatehouse demanded them to announce themselves.

"This is Bernarr of House Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort," Ironthorns announced him with a booming voice. The guardsman glared at them for a few seconds, before commanding the gates be opened. Riding into the courtyard, Bernarr immediately noticed the cold stares. Whether people of the Stark household or soldiers of their bannermen, none there had any love for the Boltons. Or so Bernarr assumed.

"Lord Bolton!" Bernarr heard someone yelling as they had taken their horses to the stables. Turning around, he saw a dark haired and broad-shouldered man on his mid-twenties approaching them with a confident grin on his face. From the bullmoose embroidered on the man's orange gambeson Bernarr deduced that this had to be Harrion Hornwood, the grandson of Lord Harwin Hornwood.

"You are Lord Bernarr Bolton, right?" he asked as he got closer, and Bernarr gave him a tense nod. "And you're Harrion Hornwood, I take it?" he calmly asked in return.

"I am indeed," Harrion answered with a smile, patting Bernarr lightly on the shoulder. Harrion had a greasy medium length hair which he had slicked back, piercing blue-green eyes, strong jaw, a patch of beard on his chin, and a pale scar running down his right cheek. Being second cousins they were kin, but Bernarr hadn't seen Harrion since he was six or seven.

"How's life in Dreadfort these days?"

"Quiet and peaceful," Bernarr answered truthfully.

"I heard you became a father recently. Congratulations, mylord," Harrion said with a small chuckle. "I've had three of the little buggers already, you know. Two sons and a daughter. Can't have much peace and quiet with them."

"Congratulations," Bernarr said awkwardly, unsure what else he should say.

"I would've invited you to Hornwood years ago, you know, but grandfather is so bloody terrified of displeasing the Starks that he won't allow it," Harrion explained with an apologetic tone. "As for me, I think our houses should stick together, there's no treason in that. I saw how these people looked at you when you rode in, resentful pricks the lot of them. They hate me too, you know. I slew Prince Herndon the Black Wolf in the Battle of Wolf's Den."

"This is hardly the place to brag about such things, Hornwood," Ironthorns sternly asserted himself into the conversation.

"Oh, Ironthorns, you crusty old bastard," Harrion said with a wide grin, lightly nudging the captain on his armored chest. Torren merely frowned at the Hornwood in response.

"Lord Bolton," another voice called before Harrion could speak up again, and this time they were approached by Urrathon Poole, Winterfell's master-at-arms and Bernarr's father-in-law. He was a portly man on his late forties with light brown hair and a thick mustache. "I saw you brought a considerable force with you. That is good. Come now, King Harlon has invited you to the great hall."

And without further ado they left Harrion Hornwood at the stables and made their way towards the inner yard. Bernarr had last seen Urrathon nearly five months ago when he had visited Dreadfort to see his newborn grandson. "Are Unella and the boy still in good health?" he asked as they walked through the archway leading into the inner yard.

"They are," Bernarr answered calmly. Urrathon had never been anything but courteous towards him, but he could still feel there was tension between them, tension that had been there since the day Bernarr had wed Unella. _He still fears that his daughter is in danger at Dreadfort._ Bernarr considered saying something to alleviate the man's concerns, but he couldn't come up with anything before they already reached the doors of the great hall.

Entering the great hall, they found it crowded with people. King Harlon Stark sat on his throne at the dais, on his left his wife and heir, and on his right his brother Prince Karlon with two of his sons. In the hall there were dozens of men clad in colors of House Umber, and one of them stood before the dais telling something to the Starks. He was a giant of a man, standing at nearly seven feet tall and towering everyone else in the room. He had a balding head with frizzy dark grey hair and a slightly lighter grey beard that reached his chest. Bernarr deduced that this had to be Orryn Umber, the Lord of Last Hearth and a man on his late fifties.

"…I brought the bastard's head to Lord Commander Dayne myself. I tossed it at his feet, and asked if I should train his men and change his sheets as well while I was at it," the old man finished his tale, which was followed with some laughter from the men in the hall.

"Bjamir the Climber has been a constant nuisance since before my reign," Harlon spoke up with a calm but authoritative tone. "You've done a great service for the Night's Watch and the North in killing him, Lord Umber. It shall be rewarded accordingly."

Quietly Urrathon had made his way to the dais, and now whispered something to his king's ears. Immediately Harlon's grey eyes darted into the back of the hall and found Bernarr. He could feel others shifting their gazes toward him as well, which tied his stomach in knots.

"Lord Bolton, approach," the King in the North commanded. With stiff steps Bernarr walked through the hall that had fallen silent. Some of the Umber men dragged their feet as they made way for him, glaring at him as he walked past them. Some looked at him with bitter anger, others with mockery or even pity. However, the look on Lord Umber's face was downright murderous, which was more than just a little frightening. Ignoring them all, Bernarr kneeled before the dais and bowed down his head.

"I, Lord Bernarr of House Bolton, have come to honor your call to arms, Your Grace," he spoke solemnly.

A few lingering seconds of silence went by before the King spoke up. "Rise, Lord Bolton," Harlon commanded calmly. As he did so, Bernarr's eyes met with those of the Stark king. The look in them was cold and steely, but not hateful. Harlon was a sturdy man on his mid-fifties, with a bushy dark grey beard and a receding hairline, which was at least partly covered by the ancient bronze-and-iron crown resting on his head.

Queen Elyana Stark, who was a few years younger than her husband, looked at Bernarr with dull indifference. She was a robust woman with the blood of House Mormont, and while she had never been known for her beauty, she had given the King five healthy children. Beside her sat the King's heir, Prince Benjen Stark, who had an almost as murderous of a look in his grey eyes as Lord Umber when he stared down at Bernarr. He was a stocky man on his mid-thirties with a broad face, dark brown hair, and a thick but well-groomed full beard.

The look on Prince Karlon's attentive eyes on the other hand was more curious than resentful. The King's younger brother was commonly known among northmen as the Sun of Winter, a moniker reflecting his cheerful and humorous nature. He was just two years younger than the King, but looked about a decade younger, with fewer wrinkles on his face, and his pointy brown beard only just having began to grey. His two sons who sat beside him, both strong lads on their early to mid-twenties, mostly avoided looking at Bernarr.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Bernarr," King Harlon said with a formal tone.

"I am honored by your hospitality, Your Grace," Bernarr responded tensely, hearing Lord Umber let out a mocking scoff behind him.

"Traitor's blood," someone in the crowd said, which was followed by a few seconds of murmurs, until King Harlon stood up from his seat, which quickly quieted the hall down again.

"I would like to have a few words with Lord Bolton in private," the King spoke loudly. "Out, all of you." He glanced at his wife, son, brother and nephews to signal that he meant them as well. The King's command was obeyed, and with some chatter everyone except King Harlon and Lord Bernarr left the hall. Prince Benjen was the last to leave the room, and after he had closed the doors behind him Harlon sat down on his throne again.

"Be honest with me, Bolton, did you consider not honoring my call?" Harlon asked, his tone nonchalant.

"It crossed my mind, Your Grace," Bernarr admitted, to which the King reacted with a chuckle.

"Honesty. That's good," Harlon said with a sharp smirk. "I do not need to ask why it crossed your mind, that much is clear. You lost many loved ones to the last war between our houses, a fate I would've never wished upon such a young boy. However, do not forget that you are not the only one who lost something to that war. I'm sure you noticed the way Lord Umber looked at you. He lost two sons at the Battle of White Knife. I lost a son that day as well. Prince Beric, my secondborn. Even before that I lost my brother Herndon, who died defending Wolf's Den against your father's men. And my noble father King Eyron, while he died of an illness, was certainly hastened on his way to the grave by the grief and stress of the war. Within these walls you will find dozens more of such stories, hundreds more in Winter Town, and thousands all over the North."

"I understand, Your Grace," Bernarr said with a gulp, turning his gaze down. "My deepest condolences for your losses."

"Piss on that!" Harlon bellowed. "May the others take your condolences, they mean nothing to me, just as mine mean nothing to you. The past is the past, there is no changing what happened yesterday. My eyes are firmly in tomorrow. Not long ago a whisper reached my ears, that King Harmund Hoare has sailed with all his might to wage war in the Reach, leaving Cape Kraken ripe for taking. For generations there hasn't been such an opportunity. I am willing to leave the past behind. If you are willing to do the same, Lord Bolton, you will have the opportunity to win back the honor of your house in the field of battle, fighting by my side. Are you willing to do that?"

"I am, Your Grace," Bernarr responded with a respectful bow. "I will, Your Grace."

"That is very good to hear," Harlon said, leaning back on his chair. "However, there is one more thing. Just recently a crow carrying a message written by Lord Commander Dayne arrived here in Winterfell, bringing with it some troubling news from the Wall. I wonder if you've heard of these news as well?"

"I have not, Your Grace," Bernarr answered truthfully, wondering what these news from the Wall had to do with him. For a moment the Stark king studied Bernarr's face with his eyes, perhaps to determine if he was speaking the truth.

"It concerns your older brother, Goren Bolton, who has given vows to the Night's Watch," Harlon finally said with a small sigh. "He, along with over fifty of his brothers in black, has deserted from the Eastwatch, taking one of the Watch's ships with him. It is unclear where exactly they have sailed, but Lord Commander Dayne suspects the wildling settlement known as Hardhome, where some King-beyond-the-Wall is rumored to hold court."

"This is the first I hear of this," Bernarr said quietly, feeling conflicted. He had always felt guilt about the fact that Goren had been punished with life on the Wall for fighting alongside their father in the most important battle of the war, whereas he had been rewarded with lordship for bending his knee after the long and pointless Siege of Dreadfort. There was a part of Bernarr that was genuinely happy that his brother had freed himself from that unjust punishment, but he was also concerned about what might Goren plan to do next. _I pray he only yearned for freedom, and not something more._

"I believe you, Lord Bolton," King Harlon said sternly. "However, I remind you that desertion from the Night's Watch is punishable by death. If Goren finds his way to the North, I'm afraid I will have to kill one more of your brothers."


	41. Gwynesse VI

**Gwynesse**

The chill of the night still lingered on the air, even if the sun had already risen above the vast green fields of the Reach. Thin and fleecy clouds could be seen high in the sky against the deep blue sky, and despite the noises of the camp around her Gwynesse Goodbrother could hear the singing of the birds in the distance. It was a beautiful and peaceful morning, in stark contrast to the slaughter and ugliness that was soon to come.

Gwynesse turned her gaze to south, seeing in the distance Mander and the ancient Stonebridge that crossed it, and beyond it the modest castle and small town named after the bridge, as well as the thousands of Reachmen troops on the riverbanks preparing to face the Lannisters in battle. A wooden barricade reinforced with iron spikes had been constructed to block the southern end of the bridge, and the southern banks of the three reedy fords within four hundred yards upriver from the bridge had all been fortified with wooden spikes, behind which stood long lines of archers ready to rain steel upon whomever would attempt to cross the river. Some six hundred yards upriver from the bridge the flat and open fields turned into a forest.

The Lannister army had arrived there late last evening. Some of the westermen lords had urged Prince Tymond to attack during the night, but the crown prince had wisely decided to wait until the morning to properly assess the situation. He had claimed for his quarters an abandoned farmhouse, around which the camp of the Lannister army had been erected. The war council that morning would be held in that farmhouse.

Approaching the farmhouse, Gwynesse saw Prince Harmund waiting for him outside by the door. "Good morning, mylady," he greeted her smoothly, giving her a small kiss. Gwynesse smiled, looking into the prince's dark eyes. Harmund had been good and kind to her throughout their time together on this march to war, but she still felt conflicted about him. The words of Ser Aubrey Crakehall haunted her mind. _I want you to question whether Prince Harmund is the kind of man you imagine him to be_.

"Have they already started?" Gwynesse asked nervously, glancing inside the common room of the farmhouse behind Harmund. He shook his head. "We're still waiting for Lord Banefort and Ser Aubrey," he said, now glancing behind Gwynesse. "Oh, there they come."

The room was crowded with the noble lords and knights, all gathered around a small table that Prince Tymond and his son Prince Tywell sat around. "Mylords, time has come to decide how we proceed," Tymond opened the meeting with a stern and commanding tone.

"I say we attack, as soon as possible," the old Lord Monfryd Banefort spoke bluntly, crossing his arms. "The trebuchets have been built; we outnumber the defenders at least four to one. What are we waiting for?"

"I assume you have seen the fortifications at the bridge and the fords, Lord Banefort?" Lord Merrel Payne chimed in dryly. "Attempting to make a crossing here will result in a bloody mess."

"We can overwhelm their defenses," Lord Banefort insisted. "Sure, men will die, but that's war. What else is there to do?"

"We could attempt to cross the river elsewhere," Ser Aubrey suggested calmly.

"Mander only gets deeper and muddier downriver from here," Prince Harmund said knowingly, no doubt having read it from some book. "There isn't a good place to cross it within leagues to the south and west."

"And what about upriver?" Prince Tywell joined in eagerly. "There has to be places suitable for making a crossing in that forest."

"Perhaps so, but I doubt it would be a better option than facing the Reachmen head on here," Ser Aubrey claimed with a sigh. "They will notice our large army worming its way into the forest and immediately set up ambushes there. It won't end well."

"There has to be some way to cross that damn river without losing half our men in the process," Prince Tymond spoke sternly. "If not then we might as well forget this place and march straight to Highgarden."

"Perhaps some of the troops could cross the river in the forest while the rest engage with the defenders here," Gwynesse spoke up spontaneously. Practically every man in the room shifted their gaze to her in surprise, and only then she realized what she had just done. _These noble lords certainly didn't expect an ironborn girl to have the gall to put forth battle plans for them._ "Just an idea, mylords," she chirped nervously.

"It might be an idea worth pursuing, mylady," Ser Aubrey said politely, before turning towards Prince Tymond again. "My prince, I could send scouts to the forest to find a suitable place for crossing. And if such a place is found I can lead the vanguard there, perhaps in the cover of the night."

"Send the scouts, ser," Tymond commanded after a moment of hesitation. Then he turned his gaze to Gwynesse and gave her a small and respectful nod, which she tensely reciprocated.

"Mylords, we shall continue our planning once Ser Aubrey's scouts return," the Lannister prince announced, and thus the meeting was over.

After taking a short walk around the camp, Gwynesse and Harmund made their way into his pavilion. There they enjoyed a few cups of wine, Harmund complimented Gwynesse for her excellent idea and the courage to speak up in front of the lords, and soon they found themselves wrapped around each other on the fur mattress, fervently pulling off each other's clothes once again.

 _He is perfectly happy to use you for his pleasure,_ the voice of Aubrey spoke inside Gwynesse's head as they kissed. However, once the handsome prince filled her wet cunt with his stiff manhood the voice disappeared, replaced with pure satisfaction. _If he uses me for pleasure, then I surely do the same for him._

Once they were done and quietly laid side by side on the mattress, the doubts began to creep back to Gwynesse's mind. "Harmund, do you love me?" she asked quietly, laying her head against his hairy and muscled chest.

"Of course I love you, Gwyn," Harmund answered with a sweet smile on his face, but his tone was too nonchalant to truly convince her. "Are you sure?" she insisted, now intensely looking him to the eyes. Softly Harmund stroked her cheek.

"I love you more than anything I have ever loved, my dear," he spoke with a warm and reassuring tone. Gwynesse nodded and smiled. "Then… will you take me for your wife?"

Harmund hesitated for a moment, turning his eyes towards the blue fabric ceiling of the pavilion for a moment. "I will," he then promised with a subtle gulp, turning his eyes to her again. "Gwyn, we will be wed once the time is right. You have my word."

"And when will the time be right?" Gwynesse asked, her voice strict but not outright hostile.

"Not before the battle," Harmund responded with a sigh, raising himself now to a sitting position. "I've decided that will ride in the vanguard by Ser Aubrey's side."

"Why?" Gwynesse asked weakly. She hadn't expected this, she had assumed Harmund would remain with the reserves, far away from the fighting.

"Because I am a knight, Gwyn," Harmund said, a hint of uncertainty in his words. "I must prove myself in the field of battle. Why else would I have come all this way?"

Gwynesse grabbed the prince's arm and looked him in the eyes, wanting to plead for him to not risk his life so recklessly. However, she could already see from his eyes that her words would not persuade him to change his mind. So, instead she guided her hand around Harmund's cock, which quickly hardened again in her grip.

"Then you owe me one more ride, my love," Gwynesse whispered as she pushed Harmund down on his back and mounted his manhood again.

Eventually Ser Aubrey's scouts returned, reporting that they had indeed found a good spot in the forest for the vanguard to cross the Mander, and so the war council was called together once again. It was decided that Ser Aubrey and the vanguard would cross the river during the night, and by dawn the Lannisters would begin their assault on the fords and the bridge, while the trebuchets would fling rocks at the castle. Someone suggested that they could use the trebuchets to crush the barricade fortifying the bridge, but the idea was quickly shot down due to the risk of crumbling the bridge itself.

Lord Westerling would command the infantry on the bridge, and Lords Serrett, Payne and Tarbeck respectively at the fords. Prince Tywell together with Lord Banefort and Lord Reyne would command the cavalry, while Prince Tymond would be in charge of the reserves.

"Once the fortifications of the bridge have been breached there will be a signal," Tymond instructed tensely, his gaze shifting between the many lords and knights in the room, finally arriving at Ser Aubrey. "Until then the vanguard must remain in the forest. Understood?"

"Yes, my prince," Ser Aubrey answered dutifully.

"Good," Tymond said with a stressful sigh. "Prepare your men but do it north of the camp and do it discreetly. You have until nightfall."

Nightfall came all too soon for Gwynesse's liking. She spent those last hours talking with Harmund, but it was clear the young prince was nervous, perhaps even frightened, of what awaited him tomorrow. Unlike usually between them Gwynesse now led most of the conversations. She told childhood stories from the Iron Isles and talked about what things in the mainland she preferred to the isles and vice versa, about places she wished they could visit together, anything to try and take Harmund's mind off the war even just for a moment. Harmund smiled, laughed and told stories of his own, and in moments Gwynesse felt that he was fully there with her in that moment, but the fear was always quick to return to his eyes, even if he tried to hide it from her.

"Please, don't die tomorrow," Gwynesse said with a gulp as the sun was already falling towards the horizon in the west, unable to avoid talking about it anymore.

"Battles are unpredictable," Harmund responded, trying to sound as calm and brave as he could. "My life will be in the hands of the Seven, and I trust that they will protect me."

"You don't have to do this, Harmund. You're the heir to the Seastone Chair, the future of the Ironborn, you don't have anything to prove to me or to anyone," Gwynesse pleaded. "For my sake, please, stay by my side."

For a moment it looked like Harmund wanted to comply to her, but then he shook his head. "No, Gwyn," he said tensely. "You don't understand, I need to do this to prove my worth, to myself most of all. This war serves the interests of my house and kingdom as much as it does the Lannisters. What kind of a man would I be to stay away from the fighting and watch from afar as others get slaughtered? No, I couldn't do that, it is my duty to fight."

"I do understand," Gwynesse answered weakly, weeping as she pushed her face against Harmund's shoulder. "I love you, by the gods, I do. Please, don't leave me alone in this world."

"I love you too," Harmund answered quietly, putting his arm around her.

As the sun set Ser Aubrey and his men prepared at the northern edge of the camp to ride out into the night, and Gwynesse escorted Prince Harmund to them.

"Pray for me, my love," Harmund said as they separated from their last kiss.

"I will," Gwynesse responded with shaky words, tears welling up in her eyes again. Harmund flashed her one more smile, before mounting his horse and putting on his helmet. By the time the riders disappeared into the night, tears freely streamed down Gwynesse's cheeks. _May the Warrior give strength to your arms, and the Mother grant you mercy._


	42. Walton VII

**Walton**

Thin mist lingered over the green fields, and the light of the morning sun glimmered softly on the surface of Mander. North of the river could be heard the faint sounds of boots thumping against the ground as the Lannister army marched into position for the battle.

Walton Manderly sat atop his horse by the side of Lord Symon Tarly, at the head of a cavalry unit of five hundred men commanded by Symon, Lord Bernard Bridges and Ser Garth Meadows. They were situated behind the easternmost of the three fords upriver from the Stonebridge, some four hundred yards away from the castle. There was another cavalry unit of same size closer to the bridge and the castle, commanded by Lord Arstan Roxton, Ser Flement Fossoway and Lord Gordan Middlebury. The four hundred archers positioned behind the wooden spikes by the fords were commanded by Ser Halmon Hunt, Ser Jon Norridge and Merle Flowers – the bastard brother of Ser Flement Fossoway. The three infantry units positioned behind those archers were commanded by Ser Richard Ashford, Lord Armen Cockshaw and Ser Ethan Sloane, and the one by the bridge by Ser Hobert Hastwyck. The castle itself was under the command of Lord Oscar Caswell.

All of yesterday the Reachman army had waited for the Lannisters to make their move, but it never came. However, now it seemed clear the Westermen had decided to attack. _They outnumber us greatly,_ Walton thought as he looked at the thousands of Lannister infantrymen marching into position north of the river. Behind those thousands of infantrymen were as many cavalrymen, and further behind them even more men in the reserves. And not only that, there were also three large trebuchets being pushed into position behind the Lannister infantry. _Those have the range to hit us, or the castle,_ Walton realized unnervingly.

The defenses set up by the bridge and the fords wouldn't be easily breached, but still Walton doubted they could prevent such a massive force from crossing the river for long. Eventually arrows would run out and the fortifications be torn down by the attackers. _That is when we charge in._

 _TOO-TO-TO-TOO!_ The Lannister trumpets chimed in the morning, and the Westerman infantry formed into phalanxes at the bridge and the fords, beginning their attempt to cross the river.

"Nock!" Yelled the commanders of the archers. "Draw! Loose!"

Volleys of arrows rained upon the Lannisters wading through the fords, and while many missed them completely or landed on their shields, the harrowing screams of pain revealed that some also slipped through. Dozens of Lannister corpses floated towards the bridge or sunk under the surface. However, the phalanxes kept slowly but surely marching across the river.

The sound of the trebuchets being launched shifted Walton's attention away from the river. Three large rocks had been flung to the air, and Walton looked with wide open eyes as they flew towards the castle. One of them missed the castle completely, landing on the field east of it. One smashed against the castle's northern wall just east of the main gate. Walton couldn't see how much damage that one did, but he did see the third rock crumbling the roof of the northern tower.

Meanwhile, the Lannister infantry had reached the southern riverbank at the fords. As they began to hack down the wooden spikes, the Reachmen infantry charged against them, poking the Lannisters back to the river with their pikes. While most of the Lannister soldiers backed down, some bravely fought to death against the defenders, resulting in the battle's first Reachman casualties.

The trebuchets were launched again, flinging three more rocks towards the castle. Two of those rocks hit the northern wall, which was now at least partially crumbled, while the third flew over it and landed on the courtyard. _If they cross the river the castle will fall within an hour,_ Walton grimly realized in that moment.

The Lannister infantrymen at the fords was reforming their phalanxes for another attempt to tear down the spikes, while the ones at the bridge had deployed a battering ram and started to pound it against the barricade. The archers kept shooting volleys of arrows, by now having taken down hundreds of Lannister soldiers with them, but more were always sent from the reinforcements.

Once more the trebuchets were launched, the rocks this time doing further damage on the northern wall, tower and gatehouse. Shortly after that the barricade at the bridge crumbled with a loud crash, the westermen charged through screaming their battle cries, and a chaotic melee ensued between the attackers and defenders.

 _aHOOOOOOOOOOO!_ A loud and booming horn was blown somewhere near the bridge, and suddenly the Lannister cavalry began to prepare for a charge across the fords. The infantrymen hadn't manage to take down all of the wooden spikes, but enough that the cavalry could potentially get through. The pikemen formed a line of defense at the riverbank, but intentionally left a gap for the Reachman cavalry to ride out against the Lannisters.

"It's almost time," Symon said sternly, glancing at his squire. Walton nodded with a gulp, and pulled down the visor of his helmet. His whole body felt heavy and stiff, his hands were shaking slightly, and cold sweat ran down his forehead.

"Men of the Reach!" Symon roared, raising his lance towards the sky. "We have some lions to drown! FOLLOW ME!"

The ground shook under the hundreds of hooves striking against it and the men screamed their battle cries as they charged towards the river. Walton saw the enemy riders galloping through the fords with great splashing and rumble, approaching the Reachmen just as fast as they did them. "DUNSTONBURY!" he screamed from the bottom of his lungs, drowning all his fear with the fervor of battle.

They clashed with the Lannisters at the beach waters, and for a moment the world was nothing but the chaotic cacophony of breaking lances, shields and bones. Walton managed to knock a knight wearing a silver tabard with a red lion off his horse, but his lance broke in the process. He threw his broken lance away and unsheathed his sword, but by then the Lannister riders were already retreating back to the north of the river. _We did it, we turned them back,_ Walton thought, for just a moment feeling triumphant.

"LOOK TO THE EAST!" Someone screamed with a panicked voice. "TO THE EAST! EAST!"

They all shifted their attention towards the east, seeing to their shock another Lannister cavalry unit charging towards them. _Where in seven hells did they come from?_

"FORM UP!" Symon hastily rallied the Reachman riders to face the riders coming from the east. "CHARGE!"

And so, they charged towards east along the river, the sun in their eyes. This time the clash was more brutal and lasted for a longer time. Walton managed to block with his shield a lance aimed at him, but didn't manage to take anyone down with his sword, swinging it frantically at any enemy who came near.

After the cavalries had charged through each other, the Reachman riders regrouped at the eastern edge of the battlefield. Their numbers had greatly reduced, and on the field laid dead and dying hundreds of men and horses. Meanwhile the Lannister cavalry that had came from the east kept on charging against the infantry and archers on the southern bank, joined by the Lannister riders from the north. The bridge had been lost, its defenders now retreating towards the castle or surrendering, while the other Reachman cavalry unit was getting squashed between the Lannister infantry coming from the bridge and the riders coming from east and north. Walton also noticed Lannister archers lining up on the northern bank, shooting volleys of arrows on the reachmen attempting to retreat from the river.

 _It's over,_ he thought grimly. However, Lord Symon didn't seem to agree, rallying the cavalry once more. "We will not abandon our brothers to slaughter!" he shouted with the kind of rage and fervor Walton had never seen from him before. "We are sons of the Reach! We will defend this land to the death if needs be! Now come with me, ONE LAST TIME!"

The men cheered loudly at the Tarly lord's words, and so they began their final desperate charge. Whatever Lannister infantry had made its way to the southern bank quickly ran away from them or got ridden over, but as they got closer to the bridge and castle, they were faced with an enemy cavalry charge twice the size of theirs. Screaming from the bottom of his lungs Walton followed Symon into the chaotic clash. Something hit him on the right shoulder, he didn't know what, but he kept pushing on. He thrusted his sword into a Lannister knight's throat, blood splattering to his face through the visor as he pulled it out. A fellow Reachman's horse fell in front of him, which made his horse bolt and change direction. As he got control of his mount again, he saw Symon retreating from the clash towards the river and decided to follow after him. However, before he could reach him, a stray arrow landed on Lord Symon's neck.

Walton could only watch in horror as the man who had been like a father to him these past few years fell from his saddle, no longer the fearless warrior and great man he had been, but just a lifeless corpse. For a moment he froze in terror, feeling nauseous and dizzy, the sounds of battle around him somehow distant. He could see most of the remaining Reachman riders abandoning the battle, riding to south and east, while those that didn't were being slaughtered by the Lannisters.

He looked once more at Symon's corpse, which laid in the mud with blood still streaming out from the neck. He stared at it until his vision was blurred with tears. _I'm sorry my lord, I have to go._


	43. Ellyn IV

**Ellyn**

The sun had almost set. Bright torches illuminated the shadowy outer courtyard of Raventree Hall, where Lady Ellyn stood together with Ronas Blackwood, Maester Joseth, Olyvar Chambers and Ser Uthor Wayn. The gates were open, and in rode Lord Brydan Blackwood with dozens of knights and squires at his coattails, returning from their mission to Fairmarket. The people of the castle welcomed back their lord with cheers, but the look on Brydan's face was anything but cheerful as he dismounted his horse.

"We've driven out the Faith Militant and taken back Fairmarket," he announced, which resulted in another wave of cheers.

"I'm pleased to hear of your success, mylord," Maester Joseth spoke politely as Brydan approached them, to which the young lord responded with a stiff nod.

"What about the leader of these Poor Fellows, mylord? Was he caught?" Ronas inquired sharply.

"We did not find Ben the Brute," Brydan answered with a sigh. "He may have died in the fighting or he may have escaped, we cannot know for sure. Regardless, the battalion of Poor Fellows that took over Fairmarket has been crushed. Ser Emmon Shawney together with Ser Horas Bracken and Ser Andar Tully has been left in charge of Fairmarket with a garrison of five hundred men. Now excuse me, I want to take a moment to pray." With those words Lord Brydan stormed off, and Ellyn watched silently as her husband walked away without saying a word to her. _Something bad happened in Fairmarket._

Among the riders who had returned with Brydan Ellyn noticed her younger brother Errol, and decided to approach him.

"Errol, I'm glad you're back," she started softly, and her brother just gave her a short glance, a sullen look in his eyes. "What happened in Fairmarket?" Ellyn asked calmly.

For a moment it looked like Errol would just ignore her, but then he spoke up with a quiet and strained voice. "Jon… Jon died."

"I'm sorry… what are you saying?" Ellyn asked confusedly, and her brother shot her with a furious glare. "My friend, Jon Bigglestone. He died in Fairmarket." Errol's words were soaked with grief and anger, and Ellyn could see he struggled to hold back tears. She wanted to hug her brother, to console him, but before she could do that Errol stormed away from her.

"These young men have just had their first taste of war," Ellyn heard the voice of Ronas speaking behind her, and she turned to face him. "I'd advice you to go and console your lord husband, mylady," he continued with a calm tone. "These are the moments when he truly needs you."

Ellyn nodded and took in a deep breath, and then wordlessly made her way to the godswood. It was dark there, and silent except for the occasional creaks of the ravens that had come to roost for the nights on the branches of the dead weirwood. And at the feet of that weirwood Ellyn saw a lone lantern, and beside it Brydan on his knees in front of the face of the heart tree. Quietly she approached him, but he did not acknowledge her even when he kneeled next to him. He looked different, and not just because of the stubble that had grown on his cheeks and around his mouth. There was something different about the look in his eyes as well, it was somehow harder than she remembered.

"This is where we had our first kiss," she spoke up quietly, looking at the red eyes of the weirwood. "It has been just a few turns of moon, but it feels like it was years ago."

Brydan remained silent, but the look on his eyes softened slightly, and he turned his gaze down with a sigh. Gently Ellyn put her hand on his shoulder. "What happened in Fairmarket, my love?"

Brydan gulped audibly, struggling to find the words. "It was… it was ugly," he started quietly. "First the battle itself, clearing out the town alley by alley, door by door, putting to sword everyone wearing the colors of the Faith Militant or attempting to resist us. And when the fighting was done, those who refused to renounce their allegiance to that cursed Lucifer the Liar had to be hanged. There were women among them, and boys half my age." It was clear to see that Brydan was shaken by the experience.

"You did what you had to do," Ellyn assured, now grabbing her husband's hand. "They made their choice when they decided to rebel against you."

"My father rebelled against the Teagues," Brydan remarked sharply.

"He rebelled against tyranny," Ellyn argued. "These people, they want to bring that tyranny back. You did what you had to do."

For a moment they were both silent, listening to the ravens creaking above them. Finally, Ellyn stood up on her feet, keeping her hand in Brydan's. "Come, my love," she whispered. "I've missed your warmth in our bed."

Silently they made their way to the lord's chambers, where Ellyn first stripped her own clothes and then gently and slowly began to undress Brydan, teasingly kissing and nibbling him everywhere while she did so. By the time he laid down on the bed his manhood was already rock hard. With pleasurable moans Ellyn mounted it, and after just a few moments of passion the lord's seed was inside her.

With a satisfied smile Ellyn rolled down by Brydan's side. "I think we just made a son, mylord," she said, and for the first time since his return Brydan smiled. "I hope so," he said quietly.

They made love twice more before falling asleep, tucked against each other, warm, tired and content. However, instead of getting a peaceful night of rest Ellyn was again haunted by nightmares.

She stood at the battlements of a silent and ruined castle she didn't recognize. The castle stood by the confluence of two large rivers, and both of those rivers ran red with blood. She made her way down from the battlements and out of the ruined castle, entering a vast and grey field littered with corpses. Most of them were soldiers, but among them were also women and children, septons and maesters, farmers and blacksmiths. Ravens and crows danced and laughed mocking as they feasted on the corpses. Ellyn kept walking, but the field of corpses seemed to never end. Eventually snow began to fall, burying the dead under a clear white veil. Famished men and women joined the crows and ravens, frantically digging the dead soldiers from under the snow and feasting on their raw flesh, dark blood splattering their pale white faces. Finally the field of corpses ended, as she arrived at the foot of a large hill. Atop that hill stood a lone leafless oak tree, and from its branches dangled four crowned corpses. Ellyn struggled her way up the hill, the snow getting deeper all the time and slowing her down. Finally, after what felt like hours, she arrived at the tree, and what she saw then shocked her more than all the devastation she had seen before that. Lord Brydan's lifeless corpse leaned against the tree, all but his pale face buried under the snow. With tears in her eyes Ellyn fell on her knees before her death husband. She hugged him and kissed him, begged for him to come back to life, but his body remained cold and lifeless.

She woke up to the door of the lord's chambers being knocked on early in the morning. She remained laying under the blanket while Brydan dressed up and opened the door. A servant was there, telling that Maester Joseth had called the council together due to some messages that had arrived during the night. After the servant left Ellyn looked at his husband, wondering if she should tell him about the nightmares.

"Are you feeling well, Ellyn?" Brydan asked calmly, clearly having seen the distress in her eyes.

"I'm… fine, just had some bad dreams," Ellyn answered, forcing a smile on her face. _What else could I say?_

"Want to join me on this council meeting?" Brydan asked, offering her his hand.

And so, after Ellyn dressed up and combed her hair, they made their way to the council chamber hand in hand and took their seats next to each other. "Maester Joseth, I heard you received some important messages during the night," Brydan spoke up, opening the meeting.

The maester cleared his throat, placing on the table two scrolls of parchment. "Indeed, mylord," he said with a subtle gulp. He picked up one of the scrolls and handed it to Brydan. "That one is from the Trident Hall, sent by your uncle Lord Robert," Joseth said. "He informs us that troops of houses Grell, Charlton and Haigh have captured Castle Darry, seemingly in support of the Faith Militant's cause. Meanwhile Lord Harroway has continued to amass troops in his town."

"As has Robert in Trident Hall," Brydan concluded, having read the scroll.

"Indeed," Joseth confirmed with a sigh. "But he fears he will be outnumbered if you do not march in his aid."

"And the other message?" Brydan asked strictly.

"From Castlewood, mylord," Joseth said, handing the other scroll now to the young lord. "Lord Harlton writes that his scouts have spotted a large Faith Militant army marching north through the lands of House Vance of Atranta, accompanied by Vance, Keath, Piper, Blantree and Smallwood troops."

"Lyonel," Brydan suddenly said while reading the scroll, a bright smile forming on his face. "Lord Harlton writes that Lyonel and Axel have returned safely from their mission to Stoney Sept. Lyonel has been injured but Maester Bennis is nursing him back to health." As Brydan continued to read his smile died down. "Apparently they learned in Stoney Sept that Lucifer intends to wed Lord Harroway's daughter."

"I believe this Faith Militant host spotted by Lord Harlton's scouts is escorting King Lucifer to Harroway for that purpose, mylord," Maester Joseth said.

For a moment tense silence lingered in the council room, and there was a concerned look in each of their eyes.

"No news from Prince Barron?" Uthor Wayn asked quietly, to which the maester shook his head. "Nothing since he informed us that he has to conciliate a dispute between Lord Darklyn and Lord Staunton before he can bring the forces of Blackwater Bay to our aid."

"We have no time to wait for Prince Barron to come and save us," Ronas spoke up sternly, looking intensely at Lord Brydan. "My brother is being surrounded by enemies, he needs your help now, Lord Brydan. We cannot allow the Faith Militant to take Trident Hall. It was the seat of the Kings of Trident for centuries, and for this Lucifer Justman to hold it… well, it would be a symbol of legitimacy we cannot afford to concede to him."

For a moment Brydan remained silent, eyeing the writings on the two pieces of parchment and scratching his chin. "I agree, Ronas," he finally said, taking in a deep breath. "We must march in Lord Robert's aid, but we need more troops to do so. Maester Joseth, send ravens to every bannerman and landed knight you think we can still rely upon. We must also levy more troops from our own land. When we have enough troops we shall march to Fairmarket, where we will combine our forces with those of Lord Mallister. And then, to defend Trident Hall."

"And… do you intend to personally lead the troops again, mylord?" Ellyn asked timidly, unable to shake from her mind the lifeless face of Brydan that she had seen in her nightmares. _Perhaps the old gods are trying to warn me, perhaps they want me to prevent him from going._ Gently Brydan grabbed her hand and looked her to the eyes.

"I understand your concern, mylady," he assured with warm but decisive words. "However, this is my war to fight. Protecting my father's legacy is not only my duty, it is my purpose, and I will keep fighting until no man, army or king threatens to destroy it. _You_ made me understand that it is what must be done. And this war has only just begun."


	44. Erich V

**Erich**

The sun approached the mountainous horizon in the west, painting the sky with gold. The evening was filled with the laughter and singing of Stormlander soldiers, which Erich Storm listened to with a smile on his face while passing water at the edge of the camp. It was a camp set around Skyreach, the ancestral home of House Fowler, which they had now besieged for nearly a week. Skyreach was perched high on the mountainside, with a steep and hard climb for any army attempting to storm its gates and walls. It wouldn't have been impossible to impregnate with an army as large as theirs, but Prince Baldric had decided to instead wait for his father's host to make its way through the Boneway and Yronwood, in the meantime sending foraging parties to pillage the nearby lands.

Erich pulled his trousers back up and turned back towards the camp, whistling as he walked past the pavilions and cookfires, making his way to the long table in the middle of the camp where Prince Baldric was feasting with the lords and knights of his host. Near the prince there was also a comely young bard named Merry Mark, whose singing and playing Baldric had taken a liking to during this siege. Mark was a thin and fair-haired man on his early twenties, and seemed to know countless of marcher ballads, playing a lute as he sang them for the entertainment of the lords and knights. He had also come up with a little song of his own to commemorate Prince Baldric's victory on the Prince's Pass, and now whenever he started to sing it all the lords and knights loudly joined him. He was just about to start again when Erich returned to the table.

 _Drop you spears, dogs of Dorne, run away,_

 _Baldric the Bold is here, and he's here to stay!_

 _Like a storm he came down the Prince's Pass,_

 _And swiftly kicked your arse!_

 _So, listen carefully, dogs of Dorne, to this merry song,_

 _You'll be beaten by a prince so young and strong!_

 _He's here to take your lands, your wives and your gold,_

 _So, run away, here comes Baldric the Bold!_

 _Drop you spears, dogs of Dorne, run away,_

 _Baldric the Bold is here, and he's here to stay!_

 _Like a storm he came down the Prince's Pass,_

 _And swiftly kicked your arse!_

 _He's not a boy, dogs of Dorne, he is a man,_

 _Of noble blood even the gods themselves can't damn!_

 _So, drop your spear and bend your knee, you Dornish mutt,_

 _Cause those who resist will be left on the gallows to rot!_

 _Drop you spears, dogs of Dorne, run away,_

 _Baldric the Bold is here, and he's here to stay!_

 _Like a storm he came down the Prince's Pass,_

 _And swiftly kicked your arse!_

Loud cheers and applauds followed the song once again, and throughout it all a wide grin remained on the young prince's face. _I'm glad he enjoys it now, because he'll surely get sick of it before the end of this war,_ Erich though with some amusement as he took his seat next to Baldric.

"For Baldric the Bold!" Lord Prestan Caron roared drunkenly on the other side of the table, raising his mug of ale for a toast, to which they all joined eagerly. "For Baldric the Bold!"

"Thank you, my lords and knights!" Baldric responded cheerfully, raising his mug for them. "The victory is as much yours as it is mine. Mark, another song about the heroics of the Marcher Lords, perhaps?"

"As you wish, my prince," Merry Mark responded with a smile on his face, starting to sing another marcher ballad.

When the feasting and drinking was done for the night, Erich made his way towards his pavilion with faltering steps. Entering the pavilion, he was welcomed by a slender girl clad in nothing but one of Erich's cloaks. It was Calla, a young camp follower from the Marches that Erich had spent the last few nights with. She was a fair skinned, freckled and redheaded girl with a foxy smile and sharp green eyes. Erich didn't know how old exactly she was, but he was sure she couldn't be more than seventeen.

"How was your evening, Ser Erich?" Calla purred seductively, approaching him with slow steps.

With a drunken grin Erich reached to pull the cloak from the girl's shoulders, but she stopped him by grabbing his arm. "How rude," she said teasingly. "Has ser knight forgot his manners? You're supposed to answer me question first."

"My evening was… pleasant enough," Erich said with a little chuckle. "And yours?"

"Bloody boring," Calla said with a sly grin and pulled off the cloak, revealing her slender and graceful body. Unable to contain himself, Erich put his hands on her small and perky breasts. "Would your knighthood like and make it a wee bit more exciting?" she asked playfully.

"With pleasure," Erich answered. Calla giggled delightfully as he raised her to his arms and carried her to the mattress, where they spent yet another night together.

In the morning Erich woke up with a slight headache, Calla still tucked under his arm, as Ser Raymont Horpe barged into his pavilion. "Morning, Ser Erich," the Horpe knight said with a thin smirk on his face. He was eating an apple and tossed another one for Erich. "The Prince sent me to fetch you. There was a rider in the night."

"A message?" Erich asked with a coarse and muffled voice, rubbing his eyes as he raised to a sitting position.

"I presume so, aye," Raymont answered, before exiting the pavilion.

With a sigh Erich got up and began to dress, while Calla remained laying on the mattress, having fallen asleep again. She looked so innocent and young when she was asleep, which almost made Erich feel guilty. He had never asked the girl how she had ended up as a camp follower, or if she had a family back in the Marches. She had been little more than cheap entertainment for him to pass the time during this dull siege. _I should have a talk with her today,_ he decided before taking his leave.

The atmosphere in the pavilion of the war council was quiet and tense when Erich made his entrance. Many of the lords and knights looked hungover, a feeling that Erich shared, but Prince Baldric himself looked more concerned than anything. A few more minutes went by before the council was gathered.

"A rider in the night brought a message from my father, King Ormund," Baldric started, his tone already revealing that whatever message he had received wasn't good news. "They've sent a raven from the Boneway to Nightsong, and from there the rider was sent to us, meaning that his message is by now a week old at least."

"And what's the message, my prince?" Lord Caron asked with a concerned frown.

"My father requests reinforcements," Baldric said with a sigh. "He has sent similar messages to all the major castles in the Marches, but stresses that our aid is paramount. King Ormund's host holds Wyl and most of the Boneway, but at the time of writing this message they had been prevented from crossing the Greenbelt three times by a Dornish force commanded by the Sword of the Morning. His Grace writes that he has lost nearly two thousand men attempting to cross the Greenbelt."

The prince's words were followed by a tense silence. "Shall we abandon our siege, then?" Lord Larys Grandison broke the silence, a nervous expression on his fleshy red face.

"I would advise against that," Ser Emerick Trant was quick to chime in. "If we abandon this siege, we allow the Fowlers holed up in that castle to join forces with the Blackmonts and Daynes in the west."

"Perhaps we should simply take Skyreach by storm, be done with it," Ralph Horpe suggested sternly, but none of the men in the council looked particularly enthused by the idea.

"I would suggest we split our forces in half," Raymont Horpe then spoke up. "Half our numbers should be enough to keep the siege going, while the other half should be enough to take Yronwood from the south."

"Maybe," Prestan Caron said, stroking his bushy red beard. "However, if we fail to take Yronwood…"

"Our forces will be splintered and broken, and our war effort in shambles," Prince Baldric concluded with a frustrated sigh. "No, it isn't a risk we can take. We can only send reinforcements for my father from the north."

"It'll take too long, my prince," Lord Caron protested. "As you said, His Grace's message is already at least a week old. Even if you send only cavalry and they ride with utmost haste, it'll take at least a fortnight before they reach the King's host."

"Not if they take a shortcut, mylord," Erich remarked, garnering curious looks from the men in the pavilion.

"Would you care to elaborate, Ser Storm?" Lord Grandison asked with a raised eyebrow.

"There is a route that goes through the Manwoody lands, connecting the Prince's Pass and the Boneway," Erich explained. "Not as wide or level as either of them, of course, but good enough for an army to use. It is the route the Daynes and Blackwoods used in the last war when they arrived to reinforce the Martells and the Yronwoods. It turned the tide of war then. Perhaps it can serve a similar purpose now, but this time in our favor."

"I know of that route," Prestan admitted with a sigh. "It could work, but… well, frankly the Dornishmen know their lands better than we ever could, and I'm sure I don't need to remind you that we are not exactly welcome here. Blackmonts and Daynes marching through the Manwoody lands is one thing, but Stormlander troops braving those treacherous valleys, ravines and ridges is something else entirely."

"The way I see it, it's the only way to get troops in King Ormund's aid fast enough to matter," Erich stated with a shrug. "Either that, or we trust His Grace will make do without reinforcements."

"Erich is right," Baldric said decisively. "I've made my decision. I will lead three thousand mounted men through this route to the Boneway, and with me shall ride Ser Erich Storm, Ser Raymont Horpe, Ser Samwell Toyne and Ser Arys Selmy. The rest of you will remain here, and Lord Caron shall take charge of this siege."

Returning to his pavilion, Erich found Calla just getting dressed up. A smile lit up on her face as she saw Erich, but quickly died down as she noticed his serious expression. "What did the Prince say, ser?" she asked.

"He'll be leaving with three thousand mounted men, and I will go with him," Erich answered with a sigh, pulling the rug from over the armor stand.

"Leaving where?" Calla queried, approaching him with hasty steps and grabbing his arm.

"To the Boneway," Erich answered calmly, gently pulling his arm away from the girl's grasp. "To join King Ormund's host."

"Well, I'll come with you then," Calla said enthusiastically, but with a sigh Erich shook his head. "The road we're taking is too dangerous for you," he said, avoiding eye contact with the camp follower. "You should remain here."

Calla gulped and took a step back. Erich could see from her eyes that she wanted to protest, to lash out at him, but lacked the courage to do so. _She has been left behind before,_ Erich realized, feeling a sting of empathy and guilt. However, he quickly shook such feelings off, knowing very well he was doing the girl a favor in preventing her from following him into this perilous journey. "I'm sorry, Calla," he nonetheless uttered. "Perhaps we'll see again someday. If not, I wish you a happy life."

Calla gave him a small nod, before silently taking her leave from the pavilion. Erich had known her for just a few days, but watching her leave felt surprisingly bitter.

The cavalry of three thousand men lead by Prince Baldric left the camp before noon, heading north to the Prince's Pass. To Erich's surprise, the prince had allowed the bard Merry Mark to come along with them.

"I am so grateful that you allowed me to come, your highness," the bard said, riding by Baldric's side. "Witnessing your heroic deeds personally will make it easier for me to make more songs about them."

"You're welcome, Mark," Baldric responded with a chuckle.

They rode up the Prince's Pass with haste, reaching the pass leading east to the lands of House Manwoody at the end of the third day. There they made their camp for the night, and though the ride had been tiring the spirits among the troops seemed to be high. There was singing and laughter around the cookfires, even if the amount of ale and wine they had brought with them was limited.

"Do you think the Dornish lords of these lands will bend the knee to my father?" Baldric asked from Erich, as they gazed at the camp from a cliff above it.

"They did bend the knee to Princess Nymeria, my prince," Erich answered calmly. "She was just as much an outsider to them as your father is. And those that did not bend the knee were crushed."

"I know," Baldric said with a sigh. "However, there has been bad blood between Dornishmen and Stromlanders for centuries. I fear that these Dornish lords would rather see their lands burned and peoples slaughtered than willingly bend the knee to us."

For a moment Erich looked quietly at the young prince. A small stubble had grown above his lips and on his chin and cheeks, and in his blue eyes was a determined look resembling that of his father's and grandfather's. _This war has quickly turned him from a boy to a man_.

"Perhaps," Erich finally responded to the prince. "However, bad blood between us and the Dornish can only exist so long as we are separated. I believe that if we win now, and manage to hold onto what we've gained, in a few generations Dornishmen and Stormlanders may stand together as brothers and sisters. And when they begin to marry and breed together, do you think their children will see much sense in the rivalries of the past?"

"Well said, Ser Erich," Baldric said with a thin smile. "A bastard you may be, but you're a good and smart man. Lord Connington was a fool for not seeing that. One day, when I'm the Storm King, you shall get all the reverence and glory you deserve as my most trusted commander and right hand."

"I'm honored, my prince," Erich responded sincerely, and Baldric patted him lightly on the shoulder before taking his leave.

In the first light of the following dawn they continued east, following the path high up to the mountains, then back down to a rugged and dry valley, and then up again. _Entrance to the Manwoody lands,_ Erich thought as he watched the winding path ahead of them. He knew that Kingsgrave couldn't be more than few days of travel from the Prince's Pass, and he knew of the terrifying reputation that castle had. There were countless stories from the days of King Albin the Mad of both enemies and servants of House Manwoody having been savagely tortured in the dark dungeons of Kingsgrave. _Albin the Mad has been freezing his balls off on the Wall for the better part of two decades,_ Erich reminded himself. He didn't know much of Albin's descendant who now held lordship over Kingsgrave, but at least they didn't have Albin's dark reputation. _And if they don't like us being here then they can try and stop us,_ Erich thought, confident that they would outnumber whatever forces Lord Manwoody would be able to muster together.

At nightfall the Stormlander host made their camp by an abandoned shepherd's cabin on a green and lightly forested high pass. The moon shined brightly that night, and Erich could see that tomorrow the route would take them down to a narrower and more densely forested valley.

"Can't get sleep, aye?" Ser Raymont Horpe asked, approaching him from behind.

"It would certainly be easier with some wine in the belly and a girl to keep me warm," Erich admitted dryly, to which the Horpe knight let out a hearty chuckle.

"Ah, I miss home," Raymont in turn confessed with an uncharacteristically wistful tone, gazing at the starry sky above them. "My wife, my sons and daughters. It's the same thing every time. When I marched to Riverlands sixteen years ago my wife was expecting our first son, and before every battle I prayed the gods to spare me so I could go back home and see my son. Six years ago, when I marched to Boneway with King Arlan, I had just had my second daughter. By then my wife had given me five children, and I prayed to gods they wouldn't have to grow up without a father. Now, in just a few turns of moon my son and heir Jonos will come of age, and I pray that I will see him as a man grown. However, I fear the gods may have already given me all the luck and mercy they can spare."

Erich remained quiet for a moment, unsure how to answer. He didn't know Ser Raymont particularly well, and by their time together during this campaign he had certainly not expected such openness from the man.

"Well, at least you have a home to miss," Erich finally spoke, flashing a smirk at the Horpe knight, who reciprocated it.

"Oh, I believe after this war you'll always be welcome in Storm's End, Ser Erich," Raymont said nonchalantly. "Or would you not like it to be your home?"

Erich frowned slightly, thinking about the question. "It is certainly a magnificent place, but a home? Well… maybe someday."

Erich got just a few hours of sleep that night, before the dawn came and it was time to push forward. As they followed the small and rough path down to the forested valley below, Ser Samwell Toyne took the lead at the vanguard, Prince Baldric came in the middle with Erich and Ser Arys Selmy, and Ser Raymont Horpe was in charge of the rearguard. By Prince Baldric's side rode also the bard Merry Mark, who kept singing as they rode through the shadowy valley.

At the bottom of the valley ran a small creek, enclosed from north and south by steep slopes filled with pines, firs, yews, hemlocks and ash trees. As the valley grew narrower and narrower the Stormlander riders had to spread into a longer and thinner line. In a few places the valley turned into an outright ravine, with the cliffsides north and south of the creek sometimes no more than a couple dozen feet away from each other. The atmosphere was tense as they marched through those tight spots. Even Merry Mark had stopped singing, leaving only the sounds of the creek and hooves striking against the wet stones to echo in the ravines.

Then, a few hours past noon, as they were making their way through yet another ravine, a horn was blown ahead of them. It was Ser Samwell's horn. "There must be trouble ahead," Ser Arys Selmy stated sternly. "It could be an ambush."

"Go see what is going on," Baldric commanded with a gulp, and dutifully the Selmy knight rode ahead. Baldric then sent another man to inform Ser Raymont in the rear that they might be under attack. However, soon after that man had ridden off large rocks fell into the ravine just a couple dozen yards behind Prince Baldric and Ser Erich, blocking the way. Then, smaller rocks kept falling in. _No, thrown,_ Erich realized to his horror. _We have indeed been ambushed_.

"PUSH FORWARD!" Baldric roared a command, and so they did. As they made their way out of the ravine they could see where the initial ambush had happened. Dead men and horses laid on the ground and the creek, covered with arrows. Sounds of fighting could be heard uphill from the forest to the north. However, instead of charging towards it recklessly Prince Baldric had his men form two lines by the creek, facing both north and sound. "Let them come," Erich heard the young prince mutter beside him.

However, instead of north or south, their opponent approached from the east. It was a cavalry unit of House Manwoody, five hundred men strong at best. However, the ambush had reduced and scattered the Stormlander host, leaving Prince Baldric in charge of a roughly similar number of riders. Now they formed up for a charge.

Erich spotted the knight in charge of the Manwoody cavalry, who was clad in a plated armor of black steel with a charcoal grey cloak donned over it, and armed with a morningstar. He rode a horse with pitch black coat and mane, and the visor of his greathelm was shaped like a human skull. _The Stranger himself,_ Erich thought with horror, before shaking off the irrational instinct. _That knight wants to invoke fear with his attire,_ he quickly rationalized _._

"Men of the Stormlands, OURS IS THE FURY!" Baldric screamed, and with thunderous battle cries they tilted their lances and charged towards the enemy. However, on the way volleys of arrows were rained upon them from the forest in the south, further decreasing their numbers. Erich saw one arrow landing on Baldric's right elbow, but the prince himself didn't even seem to notice.

They clashed with the Manwoody cavalry on the creek, starting a chaotic melee between the two forces. Erich stuck close to the prince, protecting his left flank and unhorsing any man who dared to come too close. However, it quickly came clear the fighting was turning against them, as the Manwoody riders skillfully maneuvered around the Stormlanders by continuously retreating to the forest before swiftly striking again. "RETREAT!" Baldric commanded. "REGROUP IN THE WEST!"

However, Baldric and Erich's retreat to west was stopped by the black knight with the skull helmet. Erich drew his sword, and with a furious roar he charged towards the Manwoody knight. They exchanged a few swings, successfully parrying and dodging each other's strikes, but then the Manwoody knight managed to violently embed the spikes of his morningstar into the head of Erich's horse.

The steed died with a harrowing scream of pain, throwing Erich off its back before collapsing to death. Landing on the creek Erich hit his head on a rock and began to drift to unconsciousness. The last thing he saw before passing out was the Manwoody knight facing Prince Baldric in a duel.


	45. Hagon VI

**Hagon**

It was midday, but there was no sign of the sun on the dark grey sky. In the light rain Prince Hagon Hoare walked through the muddy siege camp the Ironborn had erected few days ago around Dunstonbury, the great white castle of House Manderly. They had been victorious in the Battle of Mander's Mouth nearly a week ago, but that victory had come at a heavy cost. Their fleet had been reduced to around three hundred ships, and thousands of Ironborn and Farman men had died, hundreds more injured. Among the injured was Hagon's friend Quenton Farwynd.

Entering one of the tents reserved for the injured Hagon was for a moment overtaken by the smell. _The stench of death._ On one of the bunks he spotted his friend, laying quietly on his back with an empty look in his eyes. Hagon's eyes quickly shifted to Quenton's right arm… or rather what was now just a bandaged stump ending at the elbow. Quietly he sat down on a stool next to his friend.

"Quenton," Hagon said quietly, and stiffly Quenton turned his eyes to him.

"Hagon… I thought you would've gone by now," he spoke with a quiet and depressed tone.

"Gone where?" Hagon asked calmly.

"To raid… They've sent raiding parties to the countryside, right?"

"They have," Hagon confirmed with a sigh. "You think I'd leave you behind?"

Quenton raised up his stump arm and looked Hagon to the eyes. "You think I'll be much of a raider with this?"

Hagon felt uncomfortable and turned his gaze down. "You still have your left hand," he muttered.

"Fuck you, Hagon," Quenton spat. "It's over, my life is over. What is an ironborn warrior without his swordhand?"

"You shouldn't speak to me like that," Hagon reminded his friend strictly. "I am your prince, and I saved your life."

"It would've been better if you didn't," Quenton responded coldly and shifted his gaze away.

Hagon eyed Quenton silently for another moment, before shaking his head slightly and taking his leave. Right as he stepped out of the tent, he heard horns sounding from the Mander. Rushing at the northern edge of the camp, Hagon saw a dozen longships of House Drumm approaching them from the west. _Looks like Roryn the Reaver hasn't abandoned us after all,_ he thought with a thin smile forming on his face.

"You missed a great battle, Lord Drumm!" Hagon yelled as he went to greet Roryn and his men as they made their landing on the riverbank.

"Maybe so, prince, but I took Raylansfair for us," Roryn Drumm responded with an unabashed tone, a wolfish grin forming behind his black beard. Hagon could see there was plenty of plunder in the Drumm ships.

"You acted against King Harmund's orders," Hagon pointed out calmly, to which the Drumm lord merely chuckled. "I'm sure the Haggler will understand," he said nonchalantly, and gestured for two of his men who then carried a chest full of gold and silver to them.

"Come, let's go and meet the King," Roryn said with a sharp smirk.

As they entered the war pavilion, it was occupied by King Harmund, Lord Ulfric Harlaw, Lord Dagon Greyjoy, Ser Sandor Farman, Harrick Hoare and Karin Orkwood. Lord Drumm was quick to kneel before the King, while his men carried the chest of gold and silver at the feet of His Grace.

"King Harmund, I bring you treasures from the town of Raylansfair, as well as news that the town and its castle are currently under our occupation."

"Any noble hostages?" Harmund asked nonchalantly while inspecting the treasure chest.

Roryn hesitated for a moment before answering. "There was only an elderly bastard knight there, acting as castellan," he explained. "He told us Lord Raylan had left the town with his family upon hearing about our fleet pillaging the Shield Islands. I had the man killed. He was of no value, Your Grace."

Harmund studied Roryn with his eyes for a moment, before giving him a nod. "I understand," he said with a sigh. "You've put me in a tough situation, Lord Drumm. Your actions may have been useful to us, but they were nonetheless made without my consent. You could have simply asked for a permission to raid Raylansfair, and I may have granted it, but instead you did it on your own authority. So, what am I to do with you?"

Roryn narrowed his blue eyes, clearly insulted by the mere suggestion that he would be punished for his deeds. However, before he could speak up, Lord Harlaw cleared his throat. "Your Grace, perhaps he could lead the mission we were speaking of earlier," he suggested with his formal and polite tone.

"What mission?" Hagon was quick to ask, looking at his father with a raised eyebrow.

Harmund crossed his arms and took in a deep breath, before speaking up. "Our scouts have informed us that King Greydon is amassing an army at Highgarden, as was to be expected. It is also to be expected that Lord Osgrey is doing the same in the northern Reach, and Lord Hightower in Oldtown. We might also have no more than a moon's turn before we must either retreat from Mander or face the Redwyne fleet. Before such decisions are to be made however, we must learn if the Lannister host led by Prince Tymond has succeeded on their march to the eastern parts of the Reach. We must send ships up the Mander."

For a moment silence lingered in the pavilion. They all knew that the deeper inland you sailed your ship on a hostile territory, the greater the risk was that that ship would never see the sea again.

"If that is your wish, I will gladly lead the mission, Your Grace," Roryn finally spoke up, a thin smirk on his face. "To be the first Ironborn in generations to raid the Mander all the way up to the Stonebridge? Aye, that's a challenge I can embrace."

"Good," King Harmund said nonchalantly. "Just remember, your primary goal is to find the Lannister host."

"I understand, Your Grace."

"I will go with him," Hagon suddenly spoke up, receiving a surprised glare from both Harmund and Roryn.

"For what reason?" Harmund asked strictly.

"My brother is with the Lannisters, is he not?" Hagon then asked with a playful smirk. "Perhaps I just miss him, father."

Roryn let out a hearty laugh. "I'll gladly have the lad sailing by my side, Your Grace."

"Your Grace, I would like to go as well," the young Harrick Hoare suddenly spoke up. His bodyguard Karin Orkwood looked at him with a shocked expression on her face. "I came here to become a true ironborn, a raider like my ancestors. I don't think I can achieve that by sitting on a siege camp."

"Fine, I shall allow it," Harmund said with a hint of frustration in his words, shifting his gaze from Harrick to Hagon, and then back to Roryn again. "Twenty ships will sail up the Mander, no more. Try to reach the Lannister host as quickly as possible, send ships back in case you come across anything worth reporting, and do not engage with enemy forces if you can avoid it."

They left early next morning. The raining had stopped, but there were still some clouds darkening Hagon's mind. He hadn't gone to see Quenton again before leaving, and his friend's last words to him echoed in his mind as he watched the shores of Mander slipping by them. _Have I denied him both the life and death of a warrior?_

"You look awfully sour for a man sailing towards untold plunders, captain," the Swine spoke with his deep and raspy voice, waking Hagon from his thoughts. The prince then forced a small smile on his face. "I shall be happier once I get to bloody my blade again."

They slipped past Highgarden during the third night after they left from Dunstonbury. Some of the reachman guards spotted them and tried to shoot at them with arrows, but to no avail. On the seventh day they reached the confluence of Cockleswhent and Mander. For that night they made camp at the riverbank directly opposed to sturdy white castle built on a small hill in a tight meander of the river. From the golden banners with red apple Hagon could tell it was Cider Hall, the seat of House Fossoway. Some movement could be seen on the battlements now and then, but otherwise the castle and the village beside it were as silent as a grave.

They continued up the river in the first light of the morning, and began to raid villages, inns and farmsteads located near the river. Many of them were outright abandoned, but even those that weren't had hardly any able-bodied men to defend them. During the ninth day they also came across a motherhouse located on a small isle in the middle of the river. Roryn and his men had their way with the terrified septas and silent sisters, but Hagon was not in the mood for such. Instead, he decided to approach Harrick and Karin, who were looking for hidden treasures in the sept, also abstaining themselves from the raping.

"Found anything?" Hagon asked, while Harrick and Karin were pushing a statue of the Father from its platform. They had already done the same for the statues of the Mother and the Warrior.

"There was silver under the first two," Harrick said, excitedly nodding towards the silver cups and plates piled next to the crumbled statue of the Mother. "I bet you there's some under each of these."

"Wouldn't mind some help here, prince," Karin quipped, and with a nod Hagon rushed to help them. With a loud thump the statue of the Father came down on the stone floor, its head separating from the body as well as one of its hands. On the hole beneath was hidden only one object: an ancient golden crown. With widened eyes Hagon grabbed the crown, looking at its eleven points of yellow gold and the dark blue sapphires embedded in its band. On the front of the crown was engraved the head of a fox.

"Well, you certainly look enthralled by it," Karin remarked dryly with a raised eyebrow.

"It must have belonged to one of the ancient kings of the Reach," Harrick said with an admiring tone. "Perhaps all the way from the Age of Heroes."

"What is it with men and crowns?" Karin asked, rolling her eyes.

Hagon let Harrick to haul most of the treasures found in the sept but kept the crown for himself. They spent the night in the motherhouse and continued their journey in the morning. Some of the raiders were now dragging new salt wives with them.

On the thirteenth day they sailed past Longtable, the seat of House Merryweather located at the confluence of Blueburn and Mander. There looked to be an army of few hundred to a thousand men camped outside the castle, though it didn't look to be very well organized. Some of the soldiers yelled at them and shot at them with arrows, perhaps attempting to goad them into a fight, but the ironborn just laughed and showed them the women they had taken from the motherhouse.

Next morning they finally came across Lannister scouts, who told them that the westerman army had crushed a Reachman army at Stonebridge six days ago and was now stationed there. Two ships were immediately sent back to report this to King Harmund, but the rest of them continued towards Stonebridge. They arrived there during sunset, and what caught Hagon's eyes immediately was the crumbled walls of the Caswell castle. They anchored their ships at the dockside of the town, and marched through its streets to the keep. As they got closer, they could hear the music and laughter from inside getting louder.

Hagon barged into the great hall with Harrick, Karin and Roryn coming close behind him. At the dais were seated the two Lannister princes, several westerman lords, and in the very middle Prince Harmund the Handsome and… Gwynesse Goodbrother. Hagon had forgotten that the Goodbrother girl had accompanied the Hoares on their visit to Casterly Rock, and now apparently to the war as well. _This is a wedding feast,_ he suddenly realized, an astonished grin forming on his face. Finally, as he made his way closer to the dais his brother noticed him.

"Hagon," Prince Harmund greeted him with a slightly baffled tone.

"Hello brother!" Hagon responded cheerfully and spread his arms theatrically. "And congratulations, I take it?"

Harmund gulped subtly before nodding. "Yes, Lady Gwynesse and I have been wedded today."

"I must say I am surprised by your choice of bride, brother," Hagon said sincerely. "Was your union blessed by a septon?"

"Of course," Harmund answered tensely.

"Pity," Hagon said with a small sigh. "It is always a shame to see old traditions die."

"What are you doing here, Hagon?" Harmund asked, a frustrated look in his dark eyes.

"I was sent by our father, who is currently besieging Dunstonbury, to fetch you and your Lannister friends." Hagon took another step closer to the dais and stared his brother intensely to the eyes. "There is a war to be fought."


	46. Arthur III

**Arthur**

"Who would pass the Bloody Gate?" asked the booming voice of Ser Hendry Hersy, the Knight of the Bloody Gate. Hendry was a tall and barrel-chested man on his early fifties with a bushy black beard and balding head.

"Ser Arthur Arryn, captain of the Gulltown chapter of the Warrior's Sons, and with him seventy-six knights of the order, as well some two hundred volunteers who have joined us to fight for the cause of King Lucifer Justman in Riverlands," Arthur responded with a formal tone.

Ser Hendry gave an approving nod, and so the gates were opened for them. On the other side the Knight of the Gate approached Arthur while the hundreds of mounted men poured through.

"Another war in Riverlands, aye?" he spoke with an attentive gaze in his green eyes. "You think this Lucifer Justman truly has a chance in overthrowing the rule of the Storm King?"

"It's hard to say," Arthur admitted with a sigh. "Regardless, it is my duty as a Warrior's Son to support his cause."

For a moment Hendry remained silent, just eyeing at the men riding past them. "My nephew, Addam Hersy, died in the last war," he spoke up again with a solemn tone on his deep voice. "It was… hard for my brother to accept the loss of his only son. In fact, I think he still struggles to cope with it."

"I understand," Arthur said with a humble tone. "Many good men were lost to that war."

"I see many young men marching with you, Ser Arthur," Hendry said calmly, putting a hand on the old knight's shoulder. "Try to bring as many of them back home alive as you can."

"I will try," Arthur responded with a deep sigh. "By the Seven, I will try."

The ride down the high road was burdensome and bleak, and not made at all easier by the heavy rains that pestered them from the fourth day onward. However, at least they were numerous enough that no clansmen marauders dared to bother them. During the eight day the sun began to shine again, and during the ninth they made their way past the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon and to the forested borderlands of the Riverlands. Few hours past noon they were approached by half-a-dozen riders clad in blue tabards with three red martlets on a white bend. _House Grell,_ Arthur recalled after having thought about it for a moment.

"You the Warrior's Sons from the Vale?" asked the young man with long auburn hair, who was leading the Grell soldiers.

"Aye, we are!" Ser Eddard Egen yelled an answer before Arthur could. "And who are you, boy?"

The redhead looked taken aback by Eddard's tone, but answered nonetheless. "I am Ser Jon Nutt, here by the command of Lord Grell to escort you to Harroway."

"Good afternoon, Ser Jon," Arthur spoke up with a calm and polite tone. "I am Ser Arthur Arryn, captain of these Warrior's Sons. We've come to aid King Lucifer in his cause."

Jon Nutt nodded to Arthur's words. "His Grace is waiting for you in Harroway. There is to be a royal wedding in three days."

That evening they arrived at the old inn at the crossroads, where Arthur enjoyed a few horns of ale together with Eddard Egen, Gareth Grafton, Osbert Shett and Jon Nutt.

"Lord Charlton garrisons Castle Darry, holding Lord Darry and his family hostage," Jon explained in-between sipping his ale. "Saltpans have also surrender to Lord Harroway's men. Practically speaking, we control everything east and south of Goodbrook. Except for the Trident Hall, of course, that's still held by Lord Robert Blackwood."

"So, that's where we'll strike first?" Gareth asked eagerly, and Jon nodded to him. "After the wedding, yes," he confirmed.

"Taking Trident Hall won't be easy, especially if Lord Robert has been preparing for our attack," Arthur pointed out.

The Nutt knight gave him an unconcerned glance. "I have a feeling that Lord Harroway will find a way," he stated nonchalantly.

"Lord Harroway is to lead the assault, then?" Arthur asked sternly.

"Together with King Lucifer and Captain Hill," Jon answered. Arthur nodded tensely. He knew Lord Osmund Harroway to be a decent man, but he knew nothing of King Lucifer, and he had always considered Ser Harrold Hill to be a needlessly brash and cruel man. _Perhaps he has been tempered by age._

They arrived at Harroway an hour after the noon next day. The modestly sized town at the southern bank of the Trident was protected from south, west and east by twenty feet tall wooden walls. Some parts of the walls had been rebuilt since the last war, where Darklyn forces had breached them and sacked the town. Right now, outside those walls was camped an army sworn to King Lucifer Justman. Aside from the banners of the Warrior's Sons and House Harroway, Arthur spotted the colors of Smallwood, Vance of Atranta, Keath, Blanetree, Ryger, Haigh, Grell, Piper and Lolliston. At quick glance, he estimated their numbers to be well over seven thousand.

Riding through the muddy streets of Harroway with his lieutenants and Ser Jon Nutt, Arthur could still notice some signs of the sacking. Here and there could be seen ruined houses, which had stood abandoned and derelict for the past sixteen years. The town was clearly less populated than it had been before the last war, and the people that were on its streets looked tense and fearful at the sight of soldiers, especially the older folk. _And who could blame them,_ Arthur thought grimly.

At the center of the town stood the Harroway Tower, a bulky stone roundtower surrounded by a twelve feet tall curtain wall of stone. Arthur thought it was a rather modest seat for a house as prestigious as the Harroways, but then again, in his experience the river lords in general cared less about flaunting their wealth than those of the Vale.

In the courtyard they were welcomed by a sturdy knight of the Warrior's Sons, with a bald head, scarred face, a shadow of a beard on his strong jaw, and dark blue-grey eyes. "Captain Hill," Ser Jon Nutt greeted the man with a respectful nod, and only then Arthur recognized him as Ser Harrold Hill. _Years have not been kind to him,_ he thought. _Not that I have much room to speak._

"Ser Arthur Arryn," Harrold greeted him with a tense but respectful tone, offering his hand. Arthur shook the man's hand and gave him a polite nod.

"I was wondering if you'd still lead your men personally," Harrold said calmly, studying Arthur with his eyes. "No offense, brother, but you're getting old."

Arthur chuckled slightly at the man's words. "You don't look quite as young anymore either, Ser Harrold," he replied nonchalantly. "You've even lost your luscious locks of hair."

"I prefer to keep my head shaven these days, makes things simpler," Harrold responded with a thin smirk. "Anyway, there is to be a war council within an hour. You should come." Having said that, the bald knight turned his eyes to the six lieutenants Arthur had brought with him. "There's no room for all of your men, but you may bring two with you if you wish," he stated and took his leave.

Arthur turned towards his lieutenants. The first choice was clear. "Ned," he said without hesitating. Ser Eddard Egen was the man he trusted most in this world, his dearest friend and closest advisor. However, the second choice was harder. Ser Perros Hawick was a riverman, and perhaps the most eager of all his lieutenants to serve King Lucifer. Ser Lambert Stone on the other hand was a shrewd man with a keen military mind, someone certainly well suited for a war council. And then there were Ser Gareth Grafton and Ser Osbert Shett, the youngest of his lieutenants – the future of the Gulltown chapter.

"Ser Gareth," Arthur finally decided, and a surprised but pleased expression took over the young Grafton knight's face. "I'm honored, Captain," he said with a grateful tone.

"You will be there to watch and learn," Arthur said strictly, before turning to the remaining four lieutenants. "Rest of you, return to the camp."

The war council was held in a large room on the fourth story of the tower, with several narrow but tall latticework windows opening a view towards the river north of the town, as well as the farmlands and woods beyond it. The room was already crowded with people when Arthur, Eddard and Gareth made their entrance. The men had gathered around a long table, though none had yet taken their seat. _They're waiting for the King._

"Ser Arthur, welcome," a calm and polite voice spoke, and Arthur shifted his attention to the man approaching him. He was a slender man on his mid-forties, with a narrow cleanshaven face, short dark brown hair and sullen blue eyes. He was wearing a rather simple attire of a dark grey tunic, black wool breeches and worn leather boots, the only real indication of his noble status being the golden brooch depicting a trident pinned on his chest. Some fine lines had appeared on his face that hadn't been there when Arthur had last seen him sixteen years ago, but he still recognized those sad eyes to be Osmund Harroway's.

"It's been a long time, Lord Harroway," Arthur responded politely, to which Osmund nodded.

"Indeed, I wasn't even a lord when we last saw each other," he responded with a thin smile. However, that smile faded quickly, no doubt because of the painful memories from the last war surfacing. Osmund had lost a father, uncle, aunt, two brothers and a sister to that war.

"I've been told your daughter is to marry King Lucifer," Arthur quickly changed the topic.

"She is," Osmund confirmed tensely. It wasn't hard to see the thought troubled the lord. "Myrcella is a proper and good young woman. She will do her duty, as we all must."

Arthur narrowed his eyes and looked at Osmund for a moment, before nodding slowly.

"We've yet to meet King Lucifer," Eddard Egen calmly joined the conversation. "I take it he is a good man?"

Osmund nodded, considering his words for a moment. "His Grace is young, and still unexperienced as a king," he said with a small sigh. "He needs guidance, but he has already proven himself a pious and determined young man. He will be the king of Faith that these lands deserve, but first we must win this war for him."

"Indeed," Arthur agreed quietly.

"Excuse me, sers, I should go check if His Grace is ready," Osmund Harroway spoke tensely, and with a small nod he took his leave.

Looking around the room, it was clear to Arthur that the atmosphere amongst these men sworn to King Lucifer's cause was tense. There were no smiles, no laughter to be heard, only quiet mutterings and stern faces. And no wonder, this was after all a collection of men who had either been defeated in the last war or changed sides since then.

Making his way closer to the long table with Ned and Gareth, Arthur took his place next to a haggard looking man on his late thirties, with greasy slicked back dark hair, close-cropped salt and pepper beard, small green eyes and dark bags under them. He was dressed in a simple brown wool doublet, a bright yellow cloak donned over it and fastened with a silver clasp in the shape of a seven-pointed star. Next to the man stood a slightly crouched old man, dressed in white robes that Arthur recognized as belonging to a septon. The old septon had a mostly bald head, with some white hair remaining on the sides, and a wrinkled and pasty white cleanshaven face. All in all, Arthur deduced that this man was even older than himself. However, the look on the septon's blue eyes was surprisingly sharp for his advanced age.

"You must be Ser Arthur Arryn of Gulltown," the man in yellow cloak spoke up, his voice polite if a bit uneasy. "I am Lord Tommard Smallwood, the Lord of Acorn Hall. This here is Septon Lewis, my dear friend and wise advisor." The septon nodded at Arthur with a kindly smile.

"Your father fought for Lord Roderick Blackwood, did he not?" Arthur asked with a raised eyebrow.

"And I fought beside my father," Tommard was quick to confirm with a subtle gulp. "I saw him fall in the Battle of Six Kings, trampled to death after being knocked off his mount by a knight of the Warrior's Sons." Tommard's lips formed a thin and joyless smirk. "That sight never left me. To this day it haunts my dreams. Septon Lewis tells me it is the gods reminding me of where the path of sin leads. You see, my father was not a godly man. No, he was a drunkard and a whoremonger, and he spat on the Faith. He was my father, and I loved him, but I've known for a long time that I must choose a different path."

"Which is why you've chosen to support King Lucifer's cause," Arthur deduced calmly, and Tommard nodded. "I wish there was another way," he said grimly. "But if another war is required to undo the sins of the past, then I have no choice but to fight on the side of the Faith."

"I understand," Arthur muttered with a sympathetic tone. He wanted to say something more, but before he could the door of the room was opened once again, and in walked King Lucifer Justman, escorted by Ser Harrold Hill and Lord Osmund Harroway. The young king was a fair-haired and comely lad with blue eyes, reminding Arthur somewhat of his grandnephew King Oswell back in Vale. His Grace was dressed in lavish silks and velvets in white, blue and gold, and on his head rested a crown of silver and gold. With a haughty expression on his boyish face and with determined steps King Lucifer took his place at the head of the table. The lords and knights in the room all bowed for the King, before also taking their seats.

"Mylords, I would like to welcome the newcomers, who have joined our host since the last war council," Lucifer spoke up, his voice tense. "Lord Lucas Grell," he continued, looking at a sturdy man on his late fifties with a light brown hair and bushy greying beard, who at once stood up as the King spoke his name.

"Your Grace," he said with a deep bow. "It is an honor to finally meet you in person. Together with Lord Charlton and Lord Haigh we have worked tirelessly these past few months in securing the regions north of here for your rule."

"And I've heard you were even successful in capturing Darry," King Lucifer said with a thin smile on his face. "For that you have my utmost gratitude. Once we've taken Trident Hall, I would like to discuss further with you, Charlton and Haigh about suitable rewards for your valiant service."

"I am deeply honored, Your Grace," Lord Grell said with another bow, and after King Lucifer gave him an approving nod he sat down again. Then the King turned his gaze to Arthur. "Ser Arthur Arryn of the Vale," he spoke with what looked to be a genuinely delighted smile.

Arthur stood up and bowed for the King, as did Ned and Gareth. "Your Grace, I have arrived here from Gulltown to support your cause in overthrowing the Storm King's illegitimate rule over Riverlands. It would be an honor to serve you in pursuing that goal."

"The honor is all mine," Lucifer responded smoothly. "You have a reputation as being the very ideal of a Warrior's Son, Ser Arthur, which was why I knew you would answer my call. I was holding out hope that perhaps King Oswell would join you as well, but alas."

"King Oswell has told me he is open to making an alliance with you in the future, Your Grace," Arthur said carefully. "However, for now he considers marching against the Storm King too risky of an endeavor. That said, hundreds of knights, squires and freeriders from the Vale followed me here as volunteers."

"I see," King Lucifer said calmly, lightly tapping his fingers on the table, the smile on his face having grown slightly smaller. "If King Oswell requires proof that I am a worthy ally to him, he will have it soon enough when I take the Trident Hall."

"It's one thing to take a castle, Your Grace, and another entirely to hold it," Gareth suddenly spoke up with a nonchalant tone, and Arthur shot the young knight with a meaningful glare.

"What my young lieutenant, Ser Gareth Grafton, is trying to say, Your Grace, is that the Storm King will surely retaliate," Arthur spoke with a conciliatory tone.

"Of course he will," Ser Harrold Hill sternly spoke up. "No one in this room thinks the war ahead of us will be easy. Yet it is our duty to return Riverlands under a rightful king and the Faith of the Seven, is it not?"

Arthur let out a small sigh and nodded. "It is our duty, yes," he agreed. "However, I cannot help but be concerned about all the death and suffering this war will surely bring. And if we fail, if it is all in vain… I cannot see that being the will of the Seven."

"Which is why the Seven will guide King Lucifer to victory," Septon Lewis spoke up, a soft smile on his wrinkled face. "It is His Grace's purpose in life to bring the light of the Seven back to this land, so says even the High Septon, the Shepherd of the Faithful."

"And our purpose is to protect and guide His Grace on that path," Ser Harrold stated solemnly. Realizing there was no use in arguing this any further, Arthur simply nodded to Harrold's words and sat down.

"Ser Arthur's concern is warranted, of course," Osmund Harroway spoke up, sharply eyeing the men around the table. "However, I firmly believe this is the best moment to strike we've had since the last war was lost, and we cannot afford to hesitate now, or we may never again have an opportunity like this. The Storm King and his allies are not be underestimated, that is true, but they are not as strong as they believe themselves to be, and they'll come to learn that soon enough."

The discussion then moved on to the upcoming attack on Trident Hall, as King Lucifer announced they would begin their march on the day following the wedding. Five thousand men would march on Trident Hall, while a smaller host of two thousand would remain to defend Harroway. After a few minutes of debate, it was decided that Lord Lucas Grell, Ser Harry Lolliston and Lord Robb Ryger would remain in charge of the garrison remaining in Harroway.

After a good night of rest, the next day brought with it the grand royal wedding. The sun was shining from a clear blue sky as Ser Arthur and his lieutenants entered the town's largest sept, each of them clad in their silver armors and rainbow cloaks. King Lucifer stood between the shrines of the Mother and the Father, holding in his hands an ivory velvet cloak.

The ceremony began with a choir of holy sisters singing a lengthy song about the balance between the Father's judgement and the Mother's mercy. It was a song Arthur had heard countless times in the past, but he had to admit that these holy sisters performed it particularly beautifully. When the song was over, the septon spoke a short prayer for the King and for the Riverlands. Then, finally, the doors were opened, and Lord Osmund Harroway entered the sept, escorting by the hand his seventeen-year-old daughter Myrcella. She was by all means a pretty sight in her silky white wedding dress and orange maiden's cloak donned over it, with a short and lean figure, round rosy cheeks, timid blue-green eyes and curly light brown hair.

Having escorted her daughter between the shrines of the Mother and the Father, Lord Harroway stood aside as the septon began his prayers. First, he spoke a prayer to House Harroway and Myrcella. Then he spoke another prayer for King Lucifer, and finally for the union that was about to be made. Seven vows were spoken by Lucifer and Myrcella, the septon invocated seven blessings on them, and they exchanged seven promises with each other. A marriage song was sung, after which the septon challenged anyone present to speak against the marriage, which of course no one did. Lord Harroway then removed the orange maiden's cloak from his daughter's shoulders, and King Lucifer replaced it with his white cloak, which Arthur now noticed had the golden scales of House Justman embroidered on it.

"With this kiss I pledge my love," the groom and bride ceremoniously spoke in unison, though Lucifer's voice clearly overpowered that of Myrcella's. The people in the sept all cheered and applauded as the bride and groom kissed, but to Arthur's eyes it looked like a very uncomfortable kiss. _They are complete strangers to each other._

"In the name of the Seven I declare you man and wife," the septon intoned. "To be one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever!"

Another song was sung, after which King Lucifer crowned Queen Myrcella with a thin silver circlet adorned with seven sapphires. Then the King walked at the shrine of the Warrior, where Ser Harrold Hill kneeled before him and offered him his sword. Lucifer took the sword and theatrically raised it towards the ceiling, and its blade glimmered magically on the light coming in from the colorful stained-glass windows.

"The gods are with us!" the young king bellowed fervently. "They have shined their light upon us today, and with this blade I shall return their blessing over this land! For victory, for glory, for the gods!"


	47. Barron V

**Barron**

Brisk wind blew from the Blackwater Bay to the green and barren moor at the border of Hollard and Staunton lands, making the banners of House Durrandon and House Darklyn flicker. Prince Barron was mounted on his war horse, by his side Lord Renly Darklyn. They were surrounded by an envoy of a couple dozen mounted men, among them Ser Edwyn Darklyn, Ser Edric Hollard, Lord Denys Stokeworth and Lord Edgar Fell. With them was also the chained hostage Ser Egbert Staunton – a broad-shouldered man on his early forties, who had grown a shaggy black beard and looked dirty and haggard from his months spent in the dungeons of Dun Fort. They were all looking to the horizon, watching the approaching envoy riding under Staunton banners.

Leading the Staunton envoy was Lord Morgan Staunton himself, a stocky, short and balding man on his mid-sixties. His cleanshaven face was reddened and in his greyish green eyes was a stern glare. Right next to him rode his grandson Jonos, a lean young man on his early twenties with a sullen expression on his beardless face. Next to Jonos was his wife and the hostage of the Stauntons, Emberlei Darklyn, who looked to be in considerably better condition than Egbert Staunton. She was a pretty young lady of nine and ten, with a long and silky black hair that reached beyond her shoulders, and a prideful expression on her sharp-featured face.

A tense silence lingered between the two parties for a while, until Prince Barron cleared his throat. "Lord Staunton, I am glad you agreed to this meeting," he spoke up with a polite tone, to which Morgan Staunton responded with a tense nod.

"I have no quarrel with you or House Durrandon, Prince Barron," he spoke calmly, shifting his glare to Lord Renly.

"Aye, it is me he blames for everything," Renly Darklyn spoke up with a mocking tone. "And if Ser Edric hadn't captured his oaf of a son his goons would still be raiding my lands."

"Enough," Barron barked strictly, giving Renly a meaningful glare. "We are here to bring an end to this conflict, to negotiate peace between House Darklyn and House Staunton, and to exchange hostages."

"Lady Emberlei is no hostage, she is the lawful wife of my grandson," Lord Morgan was quick to remark, to which Renly reacted with a sarcastic laugh. "Is that so, Emberlei?" he asked.

"Rook's Rest is a miserable place with miserable people, grandfather, but they've treated me well enough," Emberlei responded nonchalantly.

"I can see the same is not true for my son," Morgan said sternly, looking at Ser Egbert.

"I captured your son after he had pillaged, raped and murdered dozens of innocent people on the lands of House Darklyn and House Hollard," Ser Edric Hollard reminded sharply. "You should be grateful I brought him to Duskendale instead of taking his head."

For a moment Morgan almost looked ashamed, turning his gaze down and taking in a deep breath. "Innocent people have been pillaged, raped and murdered for years by Lord Renly's son," he responded sternly, the anger in his eyes restored. "My firstborn son Ser Merret was merely the latest victim of this Robin Darksails."

"I've severed all ties to the bastard years ago, he is not my family," Renly hissed.

"Yet you've failed to bring him to justice for his crimes," Morgan said sharply.

"If it is so easy to capture him, why haven't you done it yourself, Lord Staunton?" Renly asked with a smug smirk.

"Don't play a fool with me, Lord Renly," Morgan bellowed angrily. "You are in possession of the largest fleet in Blackwater Bay, yet you claim it impossible to capture one pirate crew. Horseshite, I say. I think you are protecting your precious bastard boy. He never attacks ships sailing under your banners, does he?"

"I will not listen to your foul accusations, lord…"

"Enough!" Barron yelled again, glaring at both Renly and Morgan. "It is clear to me that this Robin Darksails cannot be allowed to continue to practice piracy on Blackwater Bay. I shall degree in the Storm King's name that Lord Darklyn must increase his efforts to bring him to justice."

"And what of my son's life?" Morgan asked bitterly. "Lord Renly has refused to compensate me for it, even though it was his flesh and blood who killed Merret."

Renly was about to speak up, but Barron raised his hand to cut him off. "The Storm King and House Darklyn together shall pay a compensation for the loss of your son's life. Two hundred pieces of gold will do, I'm sure."

Lord Staunton didn't look entirely satisfied by the proposal. "Four hundred," he haggled. Barron turned his eyes to Renly, who shook his head.

"Three hundred," Barron proposed with a sigh, and after a moment of consideration Morgan nodded begrudgingly.

"It will do."

"I assume we can then move on to the exchange of prisoners," Barron said tiredly, glancing at Ser Egbert and Lady Emberlei.

"But, my prince," Jonos Staunton spoke up with a gulp. "Lady Emberlei is my wife. I do not wish to give her up."

"You could always come to Duskendale with me, husband," Emberlei suggested with a sly smirk. Lord Morgan did not look at all pleased by this development.

"I believe it is for the best that Lady Emberlei returns to Duskendale for now," Barron stated calmly. "If Jonos wishes to join him he is free to do so."

Ser Egbert's chains were removed, and with his head hung low he walked back to his father. Meanwhile Emberlei proudly took her place between her father and grandfather, while Jonos Staunton looked on with a troubled expression, but ultimately stayed by his grandfather's side.

"Well, that went better than expected," Edgar Fell quipped quietly with a relieved tone.

With a stern expression on his face Barron rode between the two parties. "Now that there is peace between House Darklyn and House Staunton, we should turn out attention towards Riverlands," he spoke with an authoritative tone. "The Faith Militant has disturbed the peace there once again, crowning a false king and threatening to overthrow the Storm King's rule over the region. We must act swiftly, to root out this rebellion before it thrusts the Riverlands into chaos and further bloodshed. An army loyal to the Storm King is being gathered at Duskendale as we speak, and I would summon you to join us, Lord Staunton."

"You have returned to me my only remaining son, Prince Barron," Morgan stated quietly, looking at Ser Egbert who had by now found his way atop a horse. "You have my gratitude, and you shall have my swords and spears, as many as I can deliver."

As they began their ride back to Duskendale, Lord Denys Stokeworth approached Barron. "I take it you aren't planning to contact the lords of Crackclaw Point?"

"That will have to wait for after the war," Barron answered with a sigh. "Back in Duskendale Lord Renly informed me of the large tributes this Aelor Celtigar has been paying him. He is clearly not just some lowly pirate, but one with the wealth of a king. Gods know how he got such wealth. Regardless, I believe the Storm King himself should decide how to deal with him."

When they returned to Duskendale two days later, the army camped outside the town's walls had grown notably larger than what it had been when they left. Among the newcomers Barron spotted the banners of House Harlton, House Chyttering, House Cargyll and House Byrch. Riding into the camp, Barron was approached by Lord Armond Harlton.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Prince Barron," the balding river lord greeted him, looking tired and ungroomed.

"I see you've managed to muster a formidable number of troops for our cause," Barron said approvingly. "Is Lyonel with you?"

The look in the Harlton lord's eyes darkened slightly as he heard that name. "Lyonel remains in Castlewood, resting," he answered with a sigh. "He returned from his mission to Stoney Sept, but so badly injured that I doubted he would survive even through the night. Thank the gods for Maester Bennis and his healing skills."

Barron nodded and paused for a moment to take in a deep breath. "What did he learn in Stoney Sept?" he asked carefully.

"Perhaps we could discuss that more in my pavilion, my prince," Armond suggested. "As it happens, I have a couple visitors there right now that you might recognize."

Lord Armond led them to his large green-and-silver pavilion, and in there they found Queen Shana and Princess Arya waiting for them, as well as a tall and grey-haired man that Barron didn't recognize.

"Uncle Barron, you're back," Princess Arya said with a smile, which for the first time in days brought a smile to Barron's face as well.

"How did it go?" Queen Shana asked with a more serious tone.

"It's been settled, Lord Staunton will join us," Barron said with a thin smile remaining on his face as he took a seat. Then he turned his eyes to the grey-haired man, who now had a soft smile on his craggy and cleanshaven face with a strong jaw. He looked to be about the same age as Lord Armond and was dressed in red-and-gold quilted tunic with a black wool cloak donned over it.

"Prince Barron, it is an honor to meet you," the man introduced himself with a deep and warm voice. "I am Lord Desmond Cargyll, the brother-in-law of our common friend Lord Armond. We have seen each other before, if only briefly, years ago after your brother had lifted the siege of Raventree."

"Well, then it is a pleasure to meet again, Lord Cargyll," Barron responded calmly and shook the man's hand. "This time there is no Arlan to save the Riverlands, but I shall do my best in his stead," the old prince promised, shifting his gaze then back to Lord Armond. "Now, I believe you wanted to tell me about Lyonel's mission in Stoney Sept."

"Indeed," Armond confirmed with a sigh. "He learned that King Lucifer is to reinforce his alliance with House Harroway by wedding Lord Osmund's daughter. And since then, a combined army of the Faith Militant and traitorous river lords has marched north along the western shores of the God's Eye, Harroway no doubt being their destination."

"How strong exactly is the enemy force?" Barron asked sternly.

"We're not sure," Desmond Cargyll chimed in with a calm tone. "But it seems the Smallwoods, Keaths, Vances of Atranta and Rygers have all joined King Lucifer's cause. And if they're gathering in Harroway, it most likely means they plan to take Trident Hall."

"Trident Hall is held by my uncle, Lord Robert, right?" Shana asked with a hint of concern in her words.

"Aye," Barron said with a sigh. "Robert is a warrior; he will not yield easily. And hopefully Lord Brydan can aid him as well, if our forces don't make it there soon enough."

Tense silence followed Barron's words, a concerned expression on each of their faces. With a sigh the old prince shifted his gaze towards his niece. "Young Lady Emberlei returned to Duskendale with us," he told her calmly. "She isn't much older than you, I think you two might get along. Would you like to meet her?"

"I'd love to," Arya answered softly, looking at her mother who nodded approvingly. And thus, they made their way from the camp to Dun Fort, where they found Lady Emberlei on the courtyard with her handmaidens. Barron and Shana watched from a distance as Princess Arya approached the girls.

"I believe you two should remain here, until the war has been won," Barron said quietly. Shana turned her eyes to him, the look in them conflicted.

"I do not wish to put Arya in danger," she admitted with a gulp. "However, I do not wish to delay either, I wish to be reunited with my little brother."

"Brydan is the Lord of Raventree Hall and the Warden of Riverlands," Barron calmly remarked. "He'll be too preoccupied with fighting this war to have family reunions any time soon."

"Precisely," Shana responded with a saddened tone. "Soon he will ride to battle, just as father did sixteen years ago."

"You fear that Brydan might not live to see the end of this war?" Barron asked with an empathetic tone, and with tears welling up in her eyes Shana nodded.

"I fear he might die thinking that his sisters have forgotten him."


	48. Bernarr III

**Bernarr**

It was the third evening after Bernarr Bolton had arrived at Winterfell, and the Great Hall was filled with the cheerful noises of chatter, laughter and singing. Lords Gyles Glover and Ebbert Mormont had arrived earlier that day from the Wolfswood with over a thousand fighting men, and King Harlon had decided to hold a great feast to welcome them. Lord Mormont, the brother-in-law of Harlon, was a large and loud man on his late fifties, whereas Lord Glover was a quiet and gloomy man on his early fifties with a gaunt face and greasy dark hair. They shared the high table at the dais with the King, and a bard beside them was playing lute and singing songs about the heroics of the past Kings of Winter.

Bernarr Bolton was seated at one of the tables furthest away from the dais, his trusty captain of the guards Torren Ironthorns by his side. They shared their table with Rickard Hornwood and his son Harrion Hornwood, as well as Hornwood's captain of guards Torwyn Holt, Lord Luke Long and his brother Eyron Long.

Harrion drunkenly told them a story about how he had challenged a poacher to mount a moose if he wished to avoid being sent to the Wall, and the moose had kicked the poacher to the head as he had tried to climb atop it. No one except Torwyn Holt and Harrion himself seemed to find the story particularly amusing.

Luke Long then told about how he rode by Lord Orryn Umber's side as they hunted down and ambushed Bjamir the Climber and his band of wildling raiders. The Long lord was a tall and strong man on his mid-thirties with a comely face, deep green eyes, long brown hair and a close-cropped beard.

"They had climbed over the Wall between Sable Hall and Rimegate, and were heading back there when they came across us," Luke explained with a serious tone. "Apparently those two castles are some of the most lightly garrisoned by the Night's Watch. It's a shame, but there simply isn't enough black brothers left to effectively guard all of the Wall, and mutinies like the one that recently happened in Eastwatch certainly aren't helping." With those last words Luke glanced briefly at Bernarr.

"What do you think your brother intends, Lord Bolton?" asked Eyron Long, who looked much like his older brother except for being cleanshaven and having a shorter hair.

"I haven't seen Goren since I was a child," Bernarr answered calmly. "I do not know what kind of man he has grown to be in the Night's Watch."

"A traitor, clearly," Eyron said sharply. Bernarr narrowed his eyes as he looked at the man, but nonetheless gave him a small nod.

"So it would seem."

"Forgive my brother, Lord Bolton," Luke Long spoke up with a polite tone. "He seems to have forgotten that you were just a child when our father died at White Knife."

"I am aware," Eyron chimed in dryly, turning his tense gaze now to the Hornwoods. "Just as I am aware that our three other companions were there that day, fighting by the side of the Boltons."

"Two," Torwyn Holt corrected with a thin smirk on his bearded face. He was a burly and bald man on his mid-thirties. "I had been injured when we took Wolf's Den, and remained there until the Starks came to reclaim it."

"Water under the bridge," Rickard Hornwood spoke up with a tense smile forming on his face. He was a plain-looking and black-haired man on his late forties, and the heir to the lordship of Hornwood. "We are all here to serve King Harlon now, are we not?"

"Agreed," Harrion quickly said, grinning as he raised his mug for a toast.

"Agreed," Luke Long said calmly.

"Agreed," Bernarr quietly joined the toast.

"For King Harlon," Eyron said sternly and chugged his ale. Quietly they all took a deep gulp from their mugs.

"Speaking of kings," Torren broke the silence with his gruff voice. "I've heard grumblings of a King-beyond-the-Wall lately. There any truth to that, Lord Long?"

"Hard to say," Luke answered with a sigh. "Even the Night's Watch has trouble keeping up with what exactly is going on beyond the Wall. There are often conflicts between the wildling tribes, when one chieftain seeks supremacy over the rest, but there hasn't been a leader successful in uniting the wildlings in generations. However, now there is talk of a man called the Horned Lord, who is apparently hailed as king everywhere from Hardhome to Frostfangs."

"Horned Lord, eh?" Harrion spoke with a slightly amused tone. "You think there'll be a war against him someday?"

Luke shrugged. "Who knows. The whole thing could be nothing more than a rumor, or if the bastard really exists, he might get slain by some other wildling chieftain. That's how it usually goes."

Bernarr instinctively pictured in his head his brother kneeling before this wildling king. _Would he truly do it? Would he join forces with a wildling just to get a chance to avenge our father and brothers?_

These questions continued to trouble Bernarr's mind throughout the night, making him turn from side to side and lay awake in his bed. The dawn came what felt like mere moments after he had finally fallen asleep, and now it was time to prepare for the march ahead. Tired and chagrined, Bernarr broke his fast in the castle and then made his way out to the camp, to command the Bolton troops to pack their arms, armors and supplies.

"There was one drunken brawl between a couple of our men and some Umber boys last night, but nothing too serious," Big Ben reported to Bernarr and Torren with a nervous grin on his broad face.

"No bodies?" Torren asked sternly.

"No bodies, cap," Ben confirmed with a relieved tone. "And I've disciplined those involved already, no need to worry about that."

"Good," Bernarr muttered tiredly.

The three-day march of the army of some eight thousand Northmen led by King Harlon from Winterfell to Castle Cerwyn was troubled by heavy and icy cold rains. Finally seeing the small grey fort of House Cerwyn was perhaps the most welcome sight Bernarr had seen in his life. Around the castle was a camp of some two thousand more soldiers, dotted with banners of House Cerwyn, House Waterman, House Marsh, House Locke, House Woolfield and House Wells.

Even with just the noblemen of the army attending the small mess hall of the Cerwyns was cramped full. Luckily Bernarr found himself a place near one of the hearths. Next to him stood a tall and broad man on his early twenties, with green-grey eyes, short brown hair and a full beard. He was wearing a dark blue cloak, which was lined with dark fur and fastened with a golden clasp in the shape of a ring, runes engraved on it.

"Lord Bolton," the man greeted him with his deep and calm voice. He then offered Bernarr his hand. "I haven't had a chance to introduce myself to you. I am Harrald Umber, the grandson and heir of Lord Orryn Umber."

Bernarr shook the man's hand and gave him a respectful nod. "Pleasure to meet you."

"I heard there was a minor scuffle between our men and yours back at Winterfell," Harrald said, his tone still calm and respectful.

"My apologies, one of my subordinates has assured me the men involved have been disciplined for their actions."

"Oh, no need to apologize, as I understand it was our men who were the instigators," Harrald said with a thin smile. "They're Orryn's men to the bone, and Orryn has certainly taught them to hate the Boltons."

Bernarr sighed and turned his gaze to the fire burning in the hearth. "The scars left from the war fought between our late fathers are yet to be healed, it seems."

"Indeed," Harrald said, taking in a deep breath. "However, it doesn't mean that we must be enemies, Lord Bolton."

Bernarr raised an eyebrow and gave the young Umber a curious glance, to which the man reacted with a chuckle. "You look surprised that I don't despise you like my grandfather does," he stated amusedly. "Aye, it is true that my father died fighting against yours, just as yours died fighting against mine. But I've heard you have a son of your own now, aye? I have two… all the more reason we shouldn't repeat the tragedy of our own fathers."

"You can rest assured I have no such intentions," Bernarr responded tensely. "I've come here to prove my loyalty to King Harlon and to the North."

"As have we all," Harrald said softly.

At the first light of the next morn the Northern army, now ten thousand men strong, continued its march. The cold rains were now replaced by warm sunshine, and this time King Harlon led them towards west, towards Torrhen's Square. By the noon of the sixth day after leaving Castle Cerwyn they reached the seat of House Tallhart, and the large lake it stood by. On the fields north of the castle there was camped an army of some four thousand men under the banners of House Tallhart, House Dustin, House Ryswell and House Slate. However, the truly important sight was what was at the beach to the east of the castle. Hundreds of new longships were beached there, a wolf's head made of bronze adorning each of their bow.

"What you see before you is the greatest fleet the North has seen since the days of Brandon the Shipwright," King Harlon boasted before the men looking at the ships in awe. "These ships shall take our great army across the Saltspear, to reclaim Cape Kraken!"

The lords and common soldiers alike cheered loudly at the King's words. "THE NORTH REMEMBERS!" roared the king's brother Karlon Stark, and the men began to chant it, Bernarr joining them. "THE NORTH REMEMBERS! THE NORTH REMEMBERS! THE NORTH REMEMBERS!"

A feast was held that night in the great hall of Torrhen's Square, and this time Bernarr and Torren found themselves sharing a table with the Ryswell twins Ronard and Tomard, as well as Lord Bennard Locke and his two sons Brandon and Beren. The Ryswell twins were on their mid-twenties, both thin and tall and with handsome smiling faces. However, whereas Ronard kept his long brown hair loose and face cleanshaven, Tomard's hair was tied to thick braid and shaved off from the sides, and around his mouth was a goatee. Lord Locke was a plump and balding white-haired man on his early sixties. His heir Brandon, a man on his early forties, looked much like him except for having a full head of light brown hair. Brandon's younger brother Beren on the other hand was a sturdy and muscular man on his mid-thirties, with a short-cropped hair and a shaggy dark beard.

The atmosphere in the hall was cheerful throughout the feast, the lords and their sons clearly being eager for the war ahead. Bernarr allowed himself to enjoy the night as well. _This is exactly what the North needed,_ he thought confidently while listening to the Ryswell twins singing a rousing song about Ironborn raiders being driven out from the Rills. _A war against the Ironborn to unify us once again after the ugly civil war started by my grandfather._

When it was almost the hour of the wolf, Bennard Locke drunkenly climbed atop the table and started singing an old song about King Theon the Hungry Wolf, to which the whole hall quickly joined:

 _There once was a King of Winter called the Hungry Wolf,_

 _Crown in head and sword in hand he sailed over many a gulf,_

 _Before him fell the Andal, Wildling and the Ironborn,_

 _But after every victory still more he did yearn!_

 _Hungry, hungry was old Theon!_

 _Hungry, hungry like a wolf!_

 _Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king,_

 _In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!_

 _Side by side with Bolton he beat Argos Sevenstar,_

 _At the Weeping Water Northmen proved their skill at war,_

 _Then he sailed across the seas to the invaders' land,_

 _And he showed the men of Andalos his hunger ever grand!_

 _Hungry, hungry was old Theon!_

 _Hungry, hungry like a wolf!_

 _Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king,_

 _In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!_

 _The Hungry Wolf then sailed his ships across the windy Bite,_

 _The raiding and unruly Sistermen he wished to fight,_

 _With ease he took the isles and so the Three Sisters cried,_

 _But still the wolf king's hunger was unsatisfied!_

 _Hungry, hungry was old Theon!_

 _Hungry, hungry like a wolf!_

 _Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king,_

 _In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!_

 _Years later Theon rode to Rills to put a rebellion down,_

 _A Ryder lord there had made himself a traitor's crown,_

 _On the battlefield the king and pretender came face to face,_

 _With a single fatal swing he put the rebel to his place!_

 _Hungry, hungry was old Theon!_

 _Hungry, hungry like a wolf!_

 _Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king,_

 _In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!_

 _With the brothers of the Watch he rode beyond the Wall,_

 _To find the wildling raiders and to kill them all,_

 _And so, the wolf's hunger left many a wild one dead,_

 _Theon's sword painting the Haunted Forest with red!_

 _Hungry, hungry was old Theon!_

 _Hungry, hungry like a wolf!_

 _Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king,_

 _In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!_

 _From seas came the Ironborn to raid and burn the North,_

 _Those hardy men were the toughest foe Theon had ever fought,_

 _But bravely he drove them out from Bear Isle and Stony Shore,_

 _And when the last one fell, he asked: "Are there any more?"_

 _Hungry, hungry was old Theon!_

 _Hungry, hungry like a wolf!_

 _Hungry like a wolf and just as fearsome was that king,_

 _In his glorious memory should the Northmen sing!_

When the song was over King Harlon himself climbed atop the high table, raising his horn of mead and bellowing: "Let us be as hungry as Theon was! AWOOOOO!"

"AWOOOO!" the whole hall howled drunkenly in response to the King.


	49. Walton VIII

**Walton**

A disorganized mass of some few hundred knights, soldiers and civilians marched in the light rain along the road leading to Ashford. The Reachmen had been defeated in the Battle of Stonebridge, and Ironborn were reported by refugees to be raiding along the Mander. _Which means they've broke through my lord father's defenses at the mouth of Mander,_ Walton Manderly deduced bitterly.

Lord Symon Tarly, who had been like a second father to Walton, had fallen in battle, along with hundreds of other Reachmen. Walton knew among those fallen to be such noblemen as Lord Arstan Roxton, Lord Bernard Bridges, Ser Flement Fossoway, Lord Armen Cockshaw and Ser Hobert Haswyck, whereas Lord Oscar Caswell with his family had presumably been imprisoned by the Lannisters. Ser Garth Meadows and Ser Jon Norridge had led a small force of retreating Reachmen soldiers towards east to the Grassy Vale, but Walton had joined the larger group heading south, led by Ser Richard Ashford, Lord Gordan Middlebury, Ser Ethan Sloane, Merle Flowers and Ser Halmon Hunt. Ethan Sloane and Lord Middlebury with their men had separated from the main group when they reached Sloane Keep on the fourth day. Dozens, if not hundreds, of soldiers had also deserted them during the march, most fleeing in the night towards east. However, it hardly mattered because they were no army to begin with, just a band of defeated men on the run.

On the eight day after the defeat in Stonebridge they finally reached Ashford. The people of the town were clearly fraught with shock as they saw the heir of their lord returning at the head of a defeated force. Women, children and elderly folk rushed to the streets to welcome their returning fathers, husbands and sons, but many were left waiting in vain.

That night Walton joined Halmon Hunt for a jug of ale at one of Ashford's taverns. The tavern was called 'the Singing Soldier', and while it was filled to brim with soldiers that night there was no singing to be heard.

"So, you'll come back to Horn Hill with me, right?" Halmon asked calmly after having downed his first mug of ale.

Walton remained silent for a moment, unsure what to answer. He had been Lord Symon's ward and squire, but now Symon was dead. The rest of the Tarly family were of course also dear to him, but he wasn't sure if he could bear to see them now, much less to be the one to bring them the news of Symon's death. However, he couldn't go to Dunstonbury either. For all he knew the Ironborn could've taken it and slaughtered his family. _No, it can't be,_ Walton tried to convince himself. _Dunstonbury is a formidable fortress._

"You'll be welcome there, lad, don't worry about it," Halmon spoke up again, having waited for Walton's answer for a drawn-out moment. "You're part of the family, practically speaking, and Horn Hill might be one of the safest places in all the Reach to be in right now."

"What about Highgarden?" Walton asked quietly, to which Halmon raised an eyebrow.

"I don't know," he answered sincerely. "I know King Greydon was amassing an army there while we marched to Stonebridge, but I have no idea what has happened since. Perhaps he has marched against the Ironborn and been defeated, perhaps he is still fortified in Highgarden and waiting for the Osgreys or the Hightowers to join him."

"Highgarden can't have fallen," Walton insisted. "If it has, this war is already over. No, Greydon must still be amassing his forces. There is still hope, His Grace can still defeat these invaders."

Halmon eyed at Walton with a puzzled expression and gave him a small nod. "What's in your mind, lad?" he inquired.

Walton downed the rest of his ale and took in a deep breath. "I will go to Highgarden," he decided then and there. "I do not wish to hide in Horn Hill. I wish to avenge Symon, to defend the Reach, and to fight alongside my king." _And alongside Willam,_ Walton added in his mind, knowing his second cousin would be by King Greydon's side.

"You have an admirable attitude," Halmon complimented Walton, measuring him with his attentive blue eyes. "But you don't have to do all that. You're a young lad still, not even a man grown, it shouldn't be your responsibility to avenge Lord Symon or to defend the Reach."

"I rode by Lord Symon's side at Stonebridge, killed Lannister soldiers and watched my brothers-in-arms die all around me," Walton sternly reminded the Hunt knight. "I'm not a boy anymore, ser."

Halmon poured himself more ale, nodded his head, and raised the cup in a respectful gesture. "You've clearly made up your mind, lad," he said with a thin and melancholic smile on his handsome face. "Good luck, wherever it is that fate will take you. I'll tell the Lord Tarly's lady wife and children that you fought bravely by Symon's side, and that you are not to blame for his death."

"Thank you, ser."

At first light of the next morning Walton began his ride towards Highgarden, accompanied by a couple dozen mounted fighting men, most notable among them Merle Flowers, the bastard son of the Lord of Cider Hall. Merle was a tall and broad-shouldered man on his mid-twenties, with a square jaw and long sandy blonde hair. He struck Walton as a stern and humorless man, but it may have been just because of the circumstances.

Come evening they camped by a small creek on the lands of House Yelshire, around them a deceivingly peaceful view of green meadows and small woods.

"You're Lord Manderly's son, aye?" Merle Flowers asked Walton as they sat around the campfire. He nodded, keeping his eyes on the flames. "I'll be honest, I've never thought particularly highly about Manderlys," the Fossoway bastard said with a thin smirk. "Always saw you folk as greedy and dishonorable. More mercantile than chivalrous, if you know what I mean."

Walton raised his gaze and narrowed his eyes as he looked at Merle. "House Manderly has produced as many great knights as any great house of the Reach," he protested with a slightly offended tone, to which Merle let out a small chuckle.

"Maybe so," he conceded with a shrug. "Never was much of a student of history. All I know is what I've seen with my own eyes and heard with my own ears. That said, you seem like a fine lad at least."

Begrudgingly Walton decided to just take the compliment and nodded to Merle. There was no further conversation between them that night. Next morning they continued their ride, arriving at Pommingham Hall a few hours before the sunset. There they were welcomed and hosted by Lady Miranda Pommingham, a shapely and plump noblewoman on her early forties, who told them that her lord husband and their two sons had rode to Highgarden over a week ago to join King Greydon's host.

"So, what happened at Stonebridge?" Lady Pommingham asked them at the dinner.

Merle and Walton exchanged a look, after which Merle spoke up. "It was a bloodbath," he said grimly, and Miranda's eyes widened slightly in shock.

"We were badly outnumbered," Merle continued with a sigh. "However, it was at least somewhat under control until their cavalry somehow completely flanked our defenses at the fords."

"They came from the forest," Walton chimed in quietly, remembering only too well the sight of Lannister knights charging towards them. "The forest east of the town… They had moved part of their cavalry there during the night before the battle."

"So, the Lannisters hold the Stonebridge now?" Miranda asked with a saddened tone, and Merle gave her a stern nod. "Where do you think they will go next?" she asked tensely.

"Hard to say," Merle grunted. "They may want to hold on to the territory they've conquered up north, take Tumbleton, Grassy Vale, maybe even Longtable, set up their defenses and bring reinforcements from the Rock, and then just wait for King Greydon to march against them. However, if it were me leading that Lannister army, I'd take the opportunity to march against Highgarden now before Greydon has the time to assemble the full might of the Reach behind him. And if that is indeed what they plan to do, then there will be another great battle very soon, and a decisive one this time."

For a couple seconds Lady Pommingham almost looked like she was about to faint. "May Seven save us all," she finally muttered weakly.

It took them four more days to reach Highgarden. Walton felt weird seeing the great white castle of the Gardener kings again. It hadn't been that long since the great tourney, the festivities and celebrations, Ivar knocking him out in the squire melee, Willam winning the joust. It had all been just weeks ago, but it felt so distant now.

A formidable army had already assembled at Highgarden, having set up their encampment where the tourney fields had been. It was hard to estimate, but Walton was sure it was at least more than ten thousand men, maybe even fifteen thousand. As they got closer, Walton spotted Tarly banners at the southern edge of the camp. _Triston is leading those troops,_ he then remembered. A part of him wanted to go and search Triston right away to tell him all that had happened, but something kept him from doing it. Perhaps it was fear or shame, but nonetheless he remained by Merle Flower's side as they approached the camp from the east.

"Here to join King Greydon's army?" asked the middle-aged knight in House Rowan's colors, who halted them at the edge of the camp.

"Aye," Merle grunted. "We come from Stonebridge, which has fallen to the Lannisters."

"We heard about that some days ago," the knight said with a sigh. "And who might you be?"

"I am Merle Flowers, bastard son of Lord Franklyn Fossoway. With me are a bunch of freeriders and hedge knights, as well as Walton Manderly, son of Lord Waymar Manderly."

The Rowan knight shot an intrigued glance at Walton before speaking up again. "I am Ser Benjamin Ball, one of Lord Lomas Rowan's captains," he finally saw fit to introduce himself. "So, did I understand correctly that you were there at the Battle of Stonebridge?"

"Yes," Merle answered.

"I see," Ser Benjamin said, eyeing them with great interest. "To my knowledge you are the first ones to arrive who were actually there. So far it's all been second hand knowledge or ravens sent from castles near Stonebridge. I imagine His Grace would like to meet you personally, so you can tell him what happened."

"If you say so," Merle muttered nonchalantly.

"Yes, ser, I would be happy to speak to His Grace about what happened at Stonebridge," Walton spoke up confidently, which brought a small approving smile on Ser Benjamin's face.

"I shall take you there right away, follow me."

They had to wait in the audience room for what felt to Walton like an hour, before finally the King arrived. His Grace was escorted into the room by four of his royal guards, Ser Raymund Redwyne, Ser Benedict Bulwer, Ser Arwood Roxton and lastly Ser Willam Manderly. Willam's eyes widened in surprise as he saw Walton, but he didn't break his decorum and remained by the King's side. As Greydon took his seat, both Walton and Merle bent the knee before him.

"Stand up," King Greydon muttered laconically. "Merle Flowers and Walton Manderly," he said nonchalantly as they stood up. "I was told you were at Stonebridge when it fell to the Lannisters."

"Yes, Your Grace," they said in unison, and Merle went on to meticulously explain everything that had happened from the defenses being set up to the Lannisters breaking through them and crushing the Reachman host. Greydon listened through all of it with a calm but tense expression on his face. When Merle was finished, the King remained silent for a drawn-out moment, stroking his greying beard with a ponderous look in his green eyes.

"Thank you, for telling me what you have," he finally spoke up with a slightly distressed tone. "You've served the Reach well."

"Your Grace," Walton spoke up, tensing up as the King shifted his gaze to him. Stiffly he kneeled before him once again, taking in a deep breath. "I wish to offer you my sword in the battles to come, to avenge Lord Symon and to protect this kingdom."

Greydon stood up from his seat and approached Walton, offering him his hand. With a gulp Walton kissed it, and then His Grace helped him back up on his feet. "You've proven yourself to be a courageous young man, Walton Manderly," he complimented him. "When we march to war, you shall be my squire."

Without waiting for an answer from Walton, King Greydon took his leave. The royal guards followed after him, but Willam stopped shortly by Walton. "Congratulations," he whispered, patting Walton on the shoulder. "And sorry, for what you've had to see and go through."

"Thank you," Walton responded sincerely. It felt good to be close to someone he considered family again.

"I'll see you around, lad," Willam said with a friendly tone, before hurrying after his king.


	50. Allyria III

**Allyria**

Allyria Nymeros Martell woke up early in the morning to the ringing of bells. Opening her eyes and looking around, it took a few seconds for the princess to remember that she wasn't in her own chambers back in Sunspear, but in the cabin of the Divider, a longship captained by the ironborn pirate Albion Greyjoy. She heard the ringing of bells again, accompanied with some unintelligible yells. She dressed up with haste and made her way out to the deck.

"My princess," Ser Mateo Toland greeted her at the door with a respectful bow. The Toland knight was one of the seven royal guards to accompany Allyria on this mission. He was a thin and tall man, who had just recently had his thirtieth nameday. He had sharp green eyes, curly dark brown hair and a thin mustache, and his choice of weapon was a spear. "Did you break your fast yet? Captain Albion has informed me that there are fruits and wine in the cabin, as well as…"

"What is going on?" Allyria cut the knight off with an impatient tone, gazing at the pirate fleet around them and seeing the crews of every ship getting into work as their captains roared commands at them. "Are the Stormlanders here?"

"Yes, my princess, King Vyros's scouts have spotted the approaching fleet and given us a signal to prepare for the battle," Mateo explained calmly. "It'll be at least an hour before they are here though, and the Divider will keep a good distance from the fighting. In case the fighting turns against King Vyros's fleet, Captain Albion has promised to deliver you safely back to Sunspear."

"With a Stormlander fleet at our heels," Allyria remarked with a subtle gulp.

"These pirates all seem quite confident that they can defeat the Stormlanders, if that is of any consolation, my princess," Mateo said. "And if by chance the Stormlanders are victorious, the battle is sure to greatly reduce their numbers. Perhaps even enough to deter them from attempting to enter Greenblood."

"I hope so," Allyria responded with a sigh.

A little over an hour went by, before the Stormlander war galleys appeared from the north. Allyria watched by the railing of the Divider as the pirate fleet of Vyros Nahyr ambushed them, ramming them from the side and proceeding to board them. They were several hundred yards away from it all, but the water carried to them the sounds of hulls crashing, steel clashing with steel, and the screams of agony as the killing began. She had spectated jousting and tourney melees in the past, but this was something completely different. Men were dying on those ships, dozens, no, hundreds of them.

"Wouldn't mind getting in on that action," Samwell Dayne said with a wistful tone, leaning on the railing.

"Our duties are with the princess, Ser Samwell," Ser Boran Sargen sternly reminded the younger knight, who merely rolled his eyes at the remark.

"I for one am glad to remain on the sidelines for once," Albion Greyjoy claimed with a thin smile on his pale face. "The thrill of battle is enticing, but too much of it will make a man lose his mind."

"Or his life," Ser Boran added dryly. "I've lost many comrades on the field of battle, many of whom were just as eager as Ser Samwell here to charge into their demise."

"They died for a good cause, Ser Boran," Allyria joined the conversation, her tone a conciliatory one.

"You're right, of course, my princess," the older knight conceded with a respectful nod. "To die fighting for a noble cause is honorable. However, to die in pursuit of personal glory… It is merely tragic." Ser Boran gave a meaningful glare at Samwell as he spoke those last words.

"I guarantee you, good sers, most of the men dying to Stormlander blades on those ships right now aren't doing it for personal glory, or a noble cause for that matter," Albion said calmly. "They fight and die for simple and honest loyalty to their captains and brothers in arms. And well, perhaps as well for some hope of seeing a meager share of whatever rewards and plunder their captains lead them to."

"And what makes these men so loyal?" Allyria asked.

"For most of them their crews are the closest thing they have to a family," the Greyjoy captain answered, a piercing gaze in his blue eyes. "To fight and die for your family, for those you care about… it might be the purest thing in the world."

The fighting went on for another hour, before the remaining couple dozen Stormlander ships retreated to north. Soon after that Vyros Nahyr's fleet headed east to the Stepstones. According to legends Westeros and Essos had once been connected by a land-bridge, and the rugged isles known as the Stepstones were what remained of that land-bridge after the children of the forest had used their magic to raise the sea and shatter it. It had happened thousands of years ago, Allyria remembered Maester Olivar telling her.

Two days after leaving the Dornish shores behind the fleet arrived at a town, which the pirates called Torturer's Deep. It was a peculiar settlement, built into a narrow and shadowy cove with wooden platforms constructed along the cliffsides and connected with rope bridges. At the very end of the cove stood an old stone fort, which apparently acted as King Vyros's royal seat.

A feast to celebrate the victory over the Stormlanders was held in the fort that evening. The main hall of the fort was small and drab in comparison to that of Sunspear, but nonetheless Allyria couldn't claim the pirates of Stepstones to be sparing when it came to their festivities. The tables were filled with food and wine, musicians played strange and fast-paced songs throughout the evening, and beautiful Lyseni dancers danced to them. Allyria noticed Samwell eyeing those dancers lustfully a few times, which made her feel a bit jealous. _Does he ever look at me like that when I don't notice?_

"Princess Allyria," King Vyros spoke to her as they were starting the third course. "Last time we had a conversation, I answered to your questions."

Allyria looked at the pirate king curiously. "And now you have some for me, I take it?"

"Just one," Vyros responded with a reassuring smile. He gulped down his wine before continuing. "I was curious, now that we have defeated the Stormlander fleet, do you think your mother, Princess Nymeria, might be willing to form a more permanent alliance with me?"

Allyria took a sip of the wine, considering for a moment what her mother would answer to such a proposal. "My mother's primary concern is the safety of Dorne and her people."

"Of course," Vyros replied softly. "However, as a Rhoynar migrant she of all people knows the threat that the Freehold of Valyria poses to all of us who have a wish to remain free."

"And you believe that together we could resist that threat?" Allyria asked calmly.

"I believe that sooner or later it will be the only choice we have."

"I see," Allyria said, feeling slightly unnerved by the mere thought of dragons threatening Dorne. She had never seen one, and after hearing the stories about them she never wished to see one. "I cannot speak for my mother, but I do believe she shares your interest in resisting the Valyrians."

The pirate king grinned and slapped his hands together. "That is all I can ask of her."

As the evening went on Allyria found herself socializing with Sam, Fenris Snow, Faye Morrigen, Tyra Iheira and Arthur Jast at the lower tables. She asked Fenris questions about the North, Faye about Stormlands, Tyra about Tyrosh and Arthur about Westerlands. Fenris told her a story about how he came face to face with a bear in the Wolfswood when he was thirteen. "Thank the gods the bastard wasn't angry or hungry and left me be," he concluded with a thin smirk. Arthur then told about a great tourney in Lannisport he had attended as a twelve-year-old boy, describing with wonder in his eyes the glorious sight of a field filled with colorful pavilions and banners of noble houses, as well as knights in shining armors facing off in the tilts.

Late in the evening Faye excitedly told Allyria and Tyra about a talking pet raven she had had as a child in Crow's Nest. They all laughed with tears in their eyes as the Stormlander girl explained how she had taught the bird to say 'stinky' whenever someone entered the room. Tyra then told about how she had once bedded a Lyseni pirate who had a pet parrot, which kept babbling on about raising the sails while they had sex.

Allyria was noticeably drunk when at last the feast was over and Samwell escorted her to the chambers reserved for her in the fort.

"Oh Sam," she purred with a seductive tone as they arrived at her chambers' door. She bit her lip and put her right hand on the handsome knight's chest. Samwell looked surprised by the princess's advancements, reacting with a tense chuckle. Gently he removed Allyria's hand from his chest and kissed her on the forehead.

"Sleep well now, princess," he said politely, before taking his leave.

Allyria woke up feeling dizzy next morning. Her memories from the night were blurry at best, but she did feel a sting of regret as she remembered Samwell rejecting her. _By gods, what a fool I am._

After lunch that day the Outcast Company prepared to set sail again, to take Princess Allyria and her guards to the Skulls to meet the Crimson Prince. King Vyros came to the harbor of Torturer's Deep to bid them farewell.

"Good luck, Princess Allyria," the pirate king said with a charming tone, taking Allyria's hand and kissing it softly. "Please, come see me again once you've concluded the negotiations with the Crimson Prince."

"I will," Allyria promised with a thin smile. "You have done a great service to the Principality of Dorne by fending off the Stormlander fleet from our shores. I shall do my best to repay that favor to you."

The atmosphere aboard the Divider was tense as they left Torturer's Deep behind. The crew was clearly nervous to leave the waters controlled by King Vyros, and Allyria noticed Samwell avoiding her as much as he could. _I am here to serve my mother and the Principality,_ Allyria reminded herself while sulking in her cabin. _Everything else is secondary._

By the noon of the second day since leaving Torturer's Deep they reached the Skulls, which were the Stepstone isles located closest to the Heel of Essos. Unlike the rest of the Stepstones they were thickly forested, making them the perfect place for a rebel faction to hide in. And indeed, it didn't take long for them to come across a patrolling ship flying the blood red banner of the Crimson Prince. The ship was captained by a tall and lanky young Rhoynar man with dark olive skin and long black hair. He was clad in a leather vest that left his chest bare, and Allyria noticed several old scars running across it.

"Arano," the young captain introduced himself, a mistrustful look in his green eyes as he looked at Albion and Allyria. The Princess then introduced herself in Rhoynish and told Arano that they had been sent by King Vyros to meet the Crimson Prince.

"We were told Vyros would send an envoy, but I wasn't expecting a princess," Arano spoke with a respectful bow to Allyria.

For about an hour the Divider followed Captain Arano's ship to the north, finally arriving at the mouth of a small river on the eastern coast of the largest of the Skulls. They rowed upriver for a couple hundred yards, until arriving at a small camp where half-a-dozen ships were anchored. Hakon Sparr and few others remained to guard the ship, but the rest of them were led by foot upriver deeper into the forested island. Finally they reached a waterfall deep in the forest, and Arano led them through it into a large cavern illuminated by torches. There were small ponds of water here and there, and dripstones hung from the ceiling of the cavern like massive spears.

"This is your hideout?" Allyria asked with an admiring tone as she eyed the dozens of people inside busy with their chores. Most of them looked Rhoynar, but among them were also ebony-skinned Summer Islanders and fair-skinned men whom Allyria assumed originated from the northern parts of Essos. There were hardly any children among them, and for every woman Allyria spotted there were four or five men.

"One of them," Arano responded with a smirk. "Come, let me take you and Captain Greyjoy to the Prince."

Arano then led the two of them deeper into the cavern, where they found a large tent guarded by two Rhoynar warriors clad in scaled armors and wielding halberds. Arano explained to them that with him were the envoys sent by King Vyros, to which one of the guards nodded and entered the tent.

"The Crimson Prince will meet you now," he said as he came back out from the tent, holding the door flap open for them. With a respectful nod Allyria walked in, Arano and Albion coming in her coattails.

A comfortable armchair was situated in the middle of the room, and on it sat the man Allyria deduced to be the Crimson Prince. He was a muscled and olive-skinned man on his mid-thirties, with a close-cropped black full beard, medium length hair, determined golden eyes and a scar running across his forehead. He was clad in relatively simple grey-and-black cotton and leather clothes, but over his shoulders was donned a bright crimson cape. By his side stood a blue-eyed warrior woman on her mid-twenties, clad in steel and bronze and carrying a curved sword on her hip.

"Crimson Prince," Allyria greeted the man with a deep bow. "I am Princess Allyria Nymeros Martell, the fourthborn daughter of Princess Nymeria of Dorne. With me is Captain Albion Greyjoy of the Outcast Company. We come here as envoys of Vyros Nahyr, the King of Stepstones."

"I have great respect for Princess Nymeria," the Crimson Prince spoke up with his deep voice after having eyed them for a moment. "She led a great number of our people to safety after the Second Spice War was lost. May I ask, Princess Allyria, what exactly is your mother's affiliation with King Vyros?"

"King Vyros' fleet fended off the Stormlander fleet attempting to invade Dorne," Allyria explained calmly. "In return I agreed to act as an envoy in His Grace's negotiations with you."

"Negotiations?" The Crimson Prince asked nonchalantly, to which Allyria nodded.

"He wants to form an alliance with you."

The prince let out a small chuckle and turned his gaze down for a moment. "I have my doubts about that," he said with a sigh. Allyria raised an eyebrow, measuring the prince with her eyes for a moment as she considered what to say next.

"What exactly makes you doubtful, my prince?" she asked.

"I suspect my ambitions differ wildly from those of Vyros Nahyr," the Crimson Prince answered. "You see, unlike him I am not interested in carving some petty kingdom for myself here in the Stepstones and hoping to be ignored by Valyria. No, I wish to wage war against the tyrants who murdered and enslaved our people, burned our lands and destroyed our cities. I wish to free as many as I can from the shackles of the dragonlords, and I do not intend to stop before I am dead or there are no more slaves left to be freed."

Allyria gulped subtly at the fury and intensity in the Crimson Prince's eyes as he spoke. For a moment she was stunned, unsure how to react. "Your… your goal is noble," she finally managed to utter. "However, if the Freehold of Valyria is to be your enemy, you will surely need as many allies as you can get. Perhaps my mother and Vyros could be such allies, they have no love for the Valyrians."

The Crimson Prince narrowed his eyes and stroked his beard. "Maybe," he conceded quietly. "However, first Vyros must prove that he is committed to our cause."

"And… how should he prove it?" Allyria asked carefully.

The Crimson Prince stood up from his seat and walked at a table by one of the tent's walls. Allyria and Albion followed him there, and the prince rolled open a map of the Stepstones and the Heel of Essos. He then put his finger on a symbol depicting a fort on the coast of Essos, slightly to the north from the Skulls.

"Maroon Fort," he said calmly. "One the most important shipyards of Tyrosh," he continued, nodding at the Free City of Tyrosh on the map, located to the north of both the Skulls and the Maroon Fort. "Thousands of slaves work there."

"You plan to free those slaves," Allyria deduced, and the Crimson Prince nodded tensely.

"The fort is heavily guarded by a professional sellsword company, so even if the slaves rise up in our support taking it over won't be easy," he explained sternly. "However, a couple crews from Vyros's fleet could certainly be helpful, as well as prove him to be a worthy ally."

Allyria then explained the Crimson Prince's proposal to Albion in common tongue. The Greyjoy captain looked a bit suspect of the plan, but after a moment of consideration he nodded. "I shall sail back to Torturer's Deep and inform King Vyros of this proposal," he said calmly. "I am sure he will see the benefit in aiding the Crimson Prince's cause. You can expect me to return within a fortnight, hopefully with a few more ships."

"While we wait for King Vyros's response you are welcome to remain here, princess," the Crimson Prince said with a smile after Allyria had translated Albion's answer to him. "Amongst my people."

Allyria nodded. "Our people," she confirmed, shaking the prince's hand.


	51. Erich VI

**Erich**

It was dark. The sounds of clashing steel, cracking bones and dying men echoed in the void. Men were begging and praying, which was followed by screams of pain. Then there was singing and laughter, somehow distant and overwhelming at the same time.

Erich Storm opened his eyes. His body was aching, and his head was thumping with pain. He didn't have his armor on, and he was tied to a pole inside a pavilion. The pavilion was otherwise empty, but beside the door flap there was a stool, and on it sat a black helmet depicting a human skull.

 _We were defeated,_ Erich thought bitterly, memory of the ambush returning to his mind. _Prince Baldric…_

For minutes he remained there, silently staring at the skull helmet while listening to the sounds of the Manwoody camp around him, until finally someone entered the pavilion. Erich recognized the black armor to be that of the skull knight, but he was surprised by the person wearing it. She was a comely young woman, with dark brown hair, fair skin and sharp green eyes.

"Finally awake," the woman said with a thin smirk, grabbing the skull helmet as she spoke. "You look surprised. Perhaps it is embarrassing to you that you were defeated by a woman, I understand. However, you should know it was not just any woman, but Lady Alayne Manwoody, the heir of Kingsgrave. And now that I've introduced myself, it's your turn."

"Where… is Prince Baldric?" Erich asked, his voice strained but defiant.

"He died in the fighting," Alayne Manwoody responded bluntly. "Very tragic indeed for such a promising young prince to die on a skirmish in some nameless valley so far away from home. However, perhaps it will make his father think again before invading Dorne next time. Now, tell me who you are."

"What does it matter?" Erich asked sullenly. "Why am I even alive?"

"Because I spared you," Alayne answered sternly. "You want to know why? Because of your eyes."

"My eyes?"

"You have the purple eyes of a Dayne," Alayne clarified, now taking a step closer to Erich. "And not just the eyes, your face and your hair too. You look exactly like a couple of Daynes I know."

Erich turned his eyes down and let out a joyless chuckle. "Aye, I am Ser Erich Storm, bastard son of Princess Marleina Durrandon and a Dornish knight named Jamison Dayne, though I have never met him, and he doesn't even know that I exist."

Alayne studied Erich's face for a moment with narrowed eyes. "Curious," she said calmly.

"So, will you kill me now?"

"You said your mother is a Durrandon princess, aye?" Alayne asked, and Erich confirmed it with a nod. "Well, you might be worth a decent ransom then."

Alayne untied Erich from the pole and escorted him out of the pavilion. A cheerful Manwoody army of few hundred soldiers were camped on the northern slope of a wide and lightly wooded valley. At the bottom of the valley there was a small lake and a hamlet stood at its southern shore. Cattle and horses could be seen grazing on the fields around it.

"They would've been victims of your invading army had we not ambushed you," Alayne stated as she noticed Erich gazing towards the village.

"Such is war," Erich grunted in response, to which Alayne nodded. "Such is war," she agreed and continued leading Erich through the camp.

Suddenly Erich heard a familiar voice singing nearby. After looking around for a moment, he spotted Merry Mark playing his lute and singing for a group of Dornish soldiers around a cookfire. The bard looked to be in good health and spirits, and the Dornishmen around him were singing along with him. In a spontaneous spur of anger Erich rushed towards them.

"No more songs about the dogs of Dorne, huh?" he barked, clearly catching Mark off guard and cutting off whatever song they were singing.

"S-ser Erich," he muttered with a gulp. "I- I'm just a bard, I sing the songs of those who f-feed me."

One of the Dornish soldiers, a young lad with a goatee and long dark hair, tapped Merry Mark on the shoulder and stood up, approaching Erich. "Calm yourself, Stormlander," he said with a smug smirk. "And don't worry, we heard his song about Baldric the Bold. Oh yes, we made him sing it to the prince's severed head!"

As the other soldiers burst into laughter Erich rushed forward and tackled the man to the ground. However, before he could do anything more, she felt the blade of a dagger on his throat. "Behave yourself, prisoner," Alayne said strictly, gesturing for Erich to continue following her as she removed the blade from his throat.

Erich swallowed his anger and did as she commanded. After another minute of following her silently, Alayne led them to the horses, where another familiar face was waiting. It was Ser Arys Selmy, with his hands tied and a few fresh cuts and bruises on his face.

"Ser Erich, you survived," the Selmy knight said with a relieved tone. "Prince Baldric is dead, and Ser Samwell Toyne too. I think Ser Raymont managed to escape though."

"Enough talking," Alayne said strictly. "Let's get moving."

Erich's hands were tied as well, and he was raised atop the same horse with Ser Arys, their backs against each other. With Lady Alayne and half-a-dozen Manwoody riders around them they galloped away from the camp.

"Where are you taking us?" Erich yelled.

"To Kingsgrave!" Alayne responded with a grin on her face.

They rode to east, through the hilly Manwoody lands nestled between the Red Mountains in north and south. They came across several villages, each slightly larger than the last, until finally reaching Kingsgrave about an hour before sundown. The ancestral home of House Manwoody wasn't quite as grand as Nightsong or as elevated as Skyreach, but it did nonetheless look like a formidable fort perched on the mountainside.

"We were victorious!" Alayne announced as they arrived at the courtyard, which was received with cheers and applauds from the household guards and servants. "I bring with me two noble hostages," she continued as she dismounted her horse and approached the one Erich and Arys were sitting atop. She pulled them both down on the dusty ground. "Ser Arys Selmy and Ser Erich Storm."

"Mylady, I will inform your lord father of your return," a grinning old guardsman said and hurried away.

Alayne then helped Arys and Erich back up on their feet. "Now you shall meet the Lord of Kingsgrave," she stated nonchalantly, while haphazardly dusting the dirt and sand from their clothes.

"Son of Albin the Mad?" Erich asked quietly, and Alayne shot him with a sharp glare.

"Yes," she said after a notable pause. "Lord Arvin is not the kind of man his father was. He has honor and dignity."

"Even towards his enemies?" Ser Arys asked poignantly.

"So long as they treat him with respect, yes," Alayne answered strictly, eyeing her prisoners tensely. "Will there be a problem in that regard?"

"Of course not, mylady," Ser Arys was quick to answer with a polite tone, chivalrous as always. Alayne turned her gaze to Erich, clearly expecting an answer from him as well. However, before he could say anything the guardsman returned.

"Your father awaits you at the audience room, mylady," he said with a bow.

Alayne and two guardsmen led the prisoners inside the keep, through the shadowy stone corridors and stairways, and into the lord's audience room. It was an airy room with large windows opening a view towards the east. On the walls hung tapestries depicting battles and legendary Manwoody kings, ornate weapons, as well as a black shield with the crowned skull of House Manwoody painted on it.

Behind the desk sat Lord Arvin himself, a dark-haired man looking to be on his early fifties clad in black and dark green silks and velvets. While the look in his green eyes was sharp and attentive, Erich thought he looked sickly. He was very thin, his skin was pale and his face was gaunt – even if he clearly tried to hide it with his greying beard.

"My dear daughter," the lord spoke up with an affectionate tone on his raspy voice. "I knew you'd be victorious."

"Thank you, father," Alayne responded softly. "I bring with me noble hostages," she continued, gesturing towards Arys and Erich.

"So I was told," Arvin said calmly, eyeing at them with little interest. "So, who are they?"

"This is Ser Arys of House Selmy," Alayne started. "The second son of the Lord of Harvest Hall. A well-respected knight among the Stormlanders, I believe."

"Second son, huh?" Arvin spoke with a frown. "Tell Maester Dramon to ask… two-hundred pieces of gold for him."

"It's a more than fair price, mylord, I'm sure they'll agree to that," Alayne said. "Are you sure you don't want to ask for more?"

"I'm in no mood to haggle with marcher lords," Arvin responded with a stifled chuckle. "The sooner we have these Stormlanders out of our castle the better. Who's the other one?"

"Ser Erich Storm," Alayne answered to her father.

"A bastard?"

"Aye, bastard son of a Durrandon princess and Ser Jamison Dayne."

A moment of silence followed Alayne's words, and a thin smirk formed on the Manwoody lord's face. "I thought he looked familiar," he said, studying Erich's face with his eyes. "Oh yes, he looks exactly like his father. Brings back memories."

"How much would you want to ask for him?" Alayne asked, and Arvin thought on it for a moment.

"He is a bastard, but he has royal blood from both of his parents," the lord pondered.

"Throughout my life my royal blood has always been secondary to my bastardy," Erich chimed in nonchalantly. "I am no prince, so don't expect anyone to pay a prince's ransom for me."

"I see," Arvin spoke with a mildly disappointed tone, turning his eyes back to his daughter. "Fine, tell Maester Dramon to send ravens to Wyl and Storm's End about him, ask for a ransom of three-hundred pieces of gold."

And so, having learned their worth in ransom, Arys and Erich were escorted to the dungeons beneath the castle. Before the two of them were separated, Arys grabbed Erich's arm for a moment. "Remember, you are the Storm King's knight," he whispered, before the guards dragged him to one of the cells. Erich was taken a bit further along the corridor.

Later that night, after Erich had been given his meager supper, he saw a torch on the corridor approaching his cell. As it got closer, he recognized Alayne as the one carrying it. Before speaking a word, she pulled a flask from her coat, and threw it for Erich. Opening it, he could smell it was filled with wine.

"Thank you," Erich spoke with a confused tone. "Mylady."

"The ravens have been sent," she said nonchalantly, her curious green eyes glimmering in the light of the torch. Erich took a gulp of the wine.

"Do you think they'll pay the asked price for you?" Alayne asked sharply.

With a sigh Erich turned his gaze down. "If it was up to my mother, I'm sure they would. However, I'm less sure about King Ormund."

"The Storm King is your uncle, right?" Alayne asked with a frown, and Erich nodded. "Three-hundred pieces for your nephew doesn't sound that much to me."

"I never really was part of the family," Erich said quietly. "Besides, I failed my duty to protect his firstborn son's life."

"You're hardly to blame for the young prince's death," Alayne insisted. "He could've surrendered, but he chose to fight to death instead."

"He knew that the Storm King's heir being imprisoned by the enemy would mean the end of the war," Erich said, tears welling up in his eyes. He hadn't known Baldric for long, but he had grown attached to the lad, as well as seen his potential for greatness. _By his side I could've been a great man too, but now I shall remain nothing until the day I die._

"The war will be over soon enough regardless," Alayne claimed confidently. "You know, Ser Erich, you're as much a Dornishman as you are a Stormlander. If you chose to switch sides, you'd be welcomed among us."

"I am no turncloak," Erich answered without hesitation. "I am the Storm King's knight and will remain as such."

"Admirable loyalty," Alayne said with a slightly amused tone. "Let us see how much your king thinks it's worth." With those words the lady turned around and walked away. With tears in his eyes Erich watched as the light of the torch grew smaller, until disappearing into the darkness.


	52. Lyonel VII

**Lyonel**

Birds were singing and sun shined through the window as Lyonel Bracken opened his eyes. He was lying in a large and comfortable bed, feeling dizzy and weak. He felt a mild pain radiating from his lower back, but with a grunt he managed to pull himself to a sitting position.

"Oh, you're awake," a friendly voice spoke to Lyonel's right, and he turned his gaze to see Maester Bennis approaching him, pulling a small vial from his sleeve. "You're in Castlewood, remember?"

"Yes," Lyonel muttered hoarsely. "How long has it been?"

"Since you arrived? Well over a fortnight."

Lyonel grimaced at the thought of having been bedridden for that long.

"Milk of the poppy?" Bennis offered the small vial to Lyonel, but he rejected it. "No more milk of the poppy," he decided sternly. "It's about time I get back on my feet again, there's a war going on."

Before Bennis could respond, they heard the door being opened and shifted their gazes to see Axel Rivers entering the room. Seeing his loyal squire alive and well brought a smile upon Lyonel's face. "Axel, it's good to see you," he said sincerely, to which the boy nodded.

"It's good to see you awake," he answered with a small smirk.

"I'll let you two catch up," Maester Bennis said, putting the vial back in his sleeve. "If you change your mind about the milk of the poppy, just let me know." With those words the balding maester wobbled out of the room. Axel then took the seat next to the bed.

"How are you feeling?" the boy asked with a gulp.

"Weak," Lyonel answered truthfully. "Better than before though. There is still pain, but it's pain I can endure."

"I was quite worried for you during those first nights," Axel admitted with a small chuckle. A moment of silence followed, as Axel was clearly hesitating to say something.

"Something on your mind, lad?" Lyonel asked with a raised eyebrow.

Axel let out a small sigh before speaking up. "You were feverish throughout the first week after us arriving here, and as I sat here by your bedside I… I heard you talk in your dream. Most of what you said made no sense, but there was a name you kept repeating over and over again. Lyonel, who is Jeren?"

Lyonel took in a deep breath, gazing out of the window as memories flooded his mind. "He… was a dear friend of mine, long ago," he started with a subtle gulp. "He was the Stone Hedge's stablemaster's son, so I knew him from as young as I can remember."

"What happened to him?" Axel asked softly, and Lyonel had to clench his fists and compose himself to not break into tears.

"He died in the war," he said quietly. "When Stone Hedge fell to the Teagues, he died fighting on the battlements." No longer able to hold it back, Lyonel felt tears running down his cheeks. "I only learned of his fate when returning there after the war was over."

"I'm sorry," Axel said with a regretful tone, and Lyonel was quick to wipe the tears from his face. "It's alright, it was long ago," he muttered.

"He… was your lover, wasn't he?" Axel asked carefully, and Lyonel shot him with a surprised glare. As he struggled to find his tongue, Axel spoke up again. "It's alright, I'm not judging you," he assured. "I'm a bastard, born of sin, who am I to judge anyone?"

"You… you're the only person to know," Lyonel said with a vulnerable tone. "We kept it a secret from everyone, even though my brothers probably did have their suspicions. I… I've often felt shame, for what I shared with Jeren. However, there is nothing I wouldn't trade to be with him again."

"I understand," Axel said with a tense but empathetic tone. Silence lingered in the room for a moment, until suddenly Ser Elbert Harlton arrived, limping and leaning on a walking stick. With him came also the brown-haired Cargyll woman, whom Lyonel remembered having saved him from the Faith Militants in the woods.

"Maester Bennis said you're awake," Elbert said with a grin on his broad and bearded face. "You're looking better already."

"I'll take your word for it," Lyonel quipped in response.

"I haven't had an opportunity to introduce myself to you yet," the Cargyll woman spoke up with a polite tone as she approached the bed. "I am Deana Cargyll, daughter of Lord Desmond Cargyll."

"Pleasure to meet you, Lady Deana," Lyonel responded as he shook her hand. "And thank you, for saving my life."

"It was an honor," Deana said with a bright grin.

"So, what has happened while I've been sleeping my pain away?" Lyonel then asked.

"My lord father has taken most of our troops to Duskendale together with Lord Cargyll, to join Prince Barron's host," Elbert explained calmly. "They mean to take back the lands held by this King Lucifer and his allies around Trident."

"Lucifer is no longer in Stoney Sept then?" Lyonel asked with a frown, and Elbert shook his head. "He has marched north with the Faith Militant, most likely to wed Lord Harroway's daughter as you found out he planned," he said with a subtle gulp. "And now that they've amassed in Harroway I can only assume their next move would be to take Trident Hall."

"And Lord Brydan?" Lyonel asked quietly.

"He has taken back Fairmarket," Axel spoke up. "And I believe the latest report was that he is preparing to march in Lord Robert's aid."

"Yes, together with lords Tully, Bracken and Mallister," Elbert confirmed. A moment of silence followed, as Lyonel pondered what he should do next. A part of him wanted to join Prince Barron's host. It would be a shorter travel, meaning he might be able to make it there before the fighting begins. _My duty is with Lord Brydan and House Blackwood_ , he reminded himself. Within Barron's army he would be just another soldier, whereas Brydan undoubtedly would be in need of more personal guidance.

"I shall ride back to Raventree Hall, as soon as possible," Lyonel declared. They all looked at him with a surprised expression. "Are you sure you have the strength for such a long journey?" Deana asked softly.

Lyonel let out a sigh and stretched his arms. "Well, I better have," he said nonchalantly. "Because I've made up my mind regardless."

"You certainly are one hardy son of a bitch, Bracken," Elbert said with a grin, tapping Lyonel on the shoulder.

"I'll come with you," Deana then stated calmly. "Since you'll have to ride through enemy territory, it's better you have some protection."

"I suppose so," Lyonel replied with a respectful nod for the lady.

Lyonel, Axel, Deana as well as half-a-dozen mounted Cargyll soldiers left Castlewood the next morning, Ser Elbert waving them bye at the courtyard with his wife, sons and mother. The first few days on the road were especially hard for Lyonel, but he pushed on without complaint. They avoided most settlements, sleeping in woods and staying off the roads where they could. Aside from a few chilly rains the weather was mostly decent.

After reaching the shores of God's Eye they headed west to the lands of House Smallwood. There they spotted a small band of Poor Fellows guarding a bridge. Instead of risking a fight they decided to take a detour to south, crossing the river at a shallow ford upstream. From there they rushed with haste towards north, and after nearly a fortnight's travel Lyonel was filled with relief as they finally saw the inn Drunken Ferryman on the southern bank of Red Fork, and the old stony bridge next to it.

"I must say I admire your loyalty to Lord Brydan, Lyonel," Deana said as they filled their first mugs of ale in the common room of the inn.

"How so?" Lyonel asked calmly, taking a first sip of the ale.

"You could've remained in Castlewood, certainly no one would've thought worse of you for it," the Cargyll woman spoke, studying Lyonel's face with her narrowed eyes. "Yet you rush back to your lord with a barely healed body after almost getting killed on a mission he sent you for."

"I've pledged my sword to his service, that's all there is to it," Lyonel claimed nonchalantly, to which Deana chuckled slightly.

"No man is that simple," she argued. "You are a genuinely loyal man, I do not doubt that, but why to Brydan? Loyalty to family is one thing, but the Blackwoods and Brackens have been enemies throughout most of history. Loyalty to someone you admire is also common, and I could imagine you having admired Lord Roderick, but what has young Brydan ever done to gain your admiration?"

"What are you getting at, mylady?" Lyonel asked tensely.

"I think you are loyal to Brydan because you need some principle to cling onto, a purpose for your life," Deana spoke softly. As Lyonel frowned and glared at her she let out a small chuckle. "Sorry, 'twas just a thought I had," she quipped, taking a gulp of her ale.

"And what is your purpose, Deana?" Lyonel asked quietly. "What principle do you cling onto?"

Deana shrugged, turning her gaze down for a moment and taking in a deep breath. "Protecting my family, I suppose," she then said with a thin smile. "My father and mother, my little brother and his kids. And if that means going to war with the Faith Militant, or the bloody gods themselves, then so be it."

"I'll drink to that," Lyonel grunted, raising his mug.

Before sundown next day they arrived at Raventree Hall. It was easy to see from the trampled fields around the castle that an army had somewhat recently been camped there. In the courtyard they were welcomed by Ronas Blackwood, Ser Uthor Wayn and Lady Ellyn Blackwood.

"It is good to have you back, Lyonel," Ronas said with a grin on his face, while Ellyn rushed to hug her cousin Axel.

"Brydan has marched to war, then?" Lyonel asked quietly, and the grin vanished from Ronas' face as he gave him an affirmative nod.

"They left for Fairmarket six days ago," he said calmly. "There Lord Mallister will join them as they march for Robert's aid in Trident Hall. We can only pray they make it there before the Faith Militant does."

"Lord Mallister remained loyal after all, then," Lyonel spoke, scratching his beard. "Are you sure we can trust him?"

"I believe so, yes, for now at least," Lady Ellyn now spoke up with an assertive tone. "Lord Mallister came to visit me personally while Brydan was taking back Fairmarket from the Poor Fellows. He admitted that he had considered betraying Lord Brydan and the Storm King, but chose to remain loyal because he sees Lucifer the Liar as the High Septon's puppet and doesn't want to see him as king."

"And a puppet he certainly is," Lyonel noted calmly. "I met the young pretender king in Stoney Sept, and I got the impression that the poor lad has been brainwashed by the Faith to sincerely believe in these delusions of being the last scion of the Justman bloodline."

A modest feast was held in the great hall of Raventree that night, but despite the seemingly upbeat mood Lyonel could sense the dread under the tense smiles and nervy laughs. The war had begun in earnest and all of their future was veiled behind the blood red curtain of fate.

On the following dawn Lyonel, Axel and Deana prepared to continue their ride, this time east towards the Blue Fork where they hoped to catch up with Brydan's host. However, as Lyonel was packing the saddle bags of his horse he was approached in the stables by Lady Ellyn.

"Mylady," he greeted her with a slightly surprised tone. "These must be hard times for you, having to wait here for your husband's return… I wish I had something encouraging to say, but the words escape me."

"I will be fine," Ellyn assured calmly, a nervous look in her eyes. "However, there is something I wish you to tell Brydan when you meet him."

"Sure, of course, I will relay whatever message you wish," Lyonel promised.

Ellyn gulped, turning her gaze down and taking in a deep breath before speaking up again. "I wish you to tell him that I am carrying his child."

Lyonel's mouth opened, and for a few seconds he struggled to find his tongue. "That… is wonderful," he finally uttered. "Congratulations, I'm sure Brydan will be overjoyed to learn this."

"I learned two days ago myself," Ellyn said quietly. "For now, you are the only person to know besides myself and Maester Joseth." The lady now grabbed Lyonel's hand and looked him into the eyes. "I know Brydan trusts you, Lyonel," she spoke with a pleading tone. "Please, tell him that I will give him a son, and that that son will need him."

"I will," Lyonel promised with quiet but confident words. "I will tell him."


End file.
